And so saying she followed her daughter’s example and rode with uplifted head, apparently indifferent to the taunts of the people who followed them down to the waterside, even to the wharf where they embarked for the Tower.
Babington and his companions occupied another boat which preceded them down the river, and Francis felt relief when she saw that her father was not among them. The tide being in their favor, the boat passed swiftly down the river, shot London Bridge, and all too soon drew near the sombre mass of the Tower.
In spite of her undaunted front Francis could not forbear a shudder as their wherry drew near Saint Thomas’ tower. As a mere matter of form the boats were challenged by the sentinels. A wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened and they shot beneath the gloomy arch, through the Traitors’ gate. A feeling of dread took possession of 241 the girl as her gaze fell upon the slimy walls of the dismal arch. The wherrymen ceased rowing and the water rippled sullenly against the sides of the boat which soon, impelled by the former efforts of the oarsmen, touched the steps.
The lieutenant of the Tower, followed by numerous warders, appeared and gave acknowledgment of their receipt to the guard. Slowly the prisoners ascended the damp and slippery steps, Francis and her mother being the last to go up. A few quick commands and Babington and the others were hurried away, each man between two warders. Then the lieutenant turned to Lady Stafford.
“Follow me, madam,” he said making a respectful salutation. “I will conduct you to your chamber, where, I pray your pardon, my orders are to place you under some restraint. You, young master, will remain here until my return. The time will be but short.”
“Oh,” cried the lady in supplicating tones, “are we to be separated?”
“Such are my commands, madam,” returned he in tones of commiseration. “Thou art to 242 be confined in the Brick Tower. Thy son in the Beauchamp Tower. Come!”
“Oh, my child! my child!” sobbed the mother throwing her arms about Francis. “What will be thy fate? What will they do to thee?”
“Calm thyself, my mother,” comforted Francis. “We can but hope. Mayhap the good keeper will permit us to see each other occasionally. Go now, mother. We must not vex him.”
Clasping her convulsively to her breast for a moment, Lady Stafford released her, and then followed the lieutenant, weeping bitterly.