A venerable “beefeater” with white hair and beard came in answer to the summons, and bowing politely to the party, immediately started off with them. They set out along a little, narrow, paved street, lined by ancient buildings or high walls.
“They do say h’as ’ow the Princess Elizabeth, afterwards Queen, was h’imprisoned in that room, up there,” stated the guide, pointing to a small window in a wall on their left. “By Queen Mary’s h’orders she was brought in through the Traitor’s Gate, there. That was a great disgrace, you know, Miss,” he said to Betty, “for h’all the State prisoners entered by there, and few of them h’ever again left the Tower.”
Before them some steps led down to a little paved court, and beyond, under a building, they saw the terrible Traitor’s Gate,—a low, gloomy arch, with great wooden doors. The water formerly came through the arch and up to the steps, at which the unfortunate prisoners were landed. As the Princess Elizabeth stepped from the boat, she cried, “Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before Thee, O God, I speak it!”
“Isn’t there a proverb, ‘A loyal heart may be landed at Traitor’s Gate’?” questioned Mrs. Pitt; and turning to the guide she added, “Wasn’t it right here where we are standing that Margaret Roper caught sight of her father, Sir Thomas More, after his trial?” As the guide nodded his assent, she went on, “You all remember Sir Thomas More, of course,—the great and noble man whom Henry VIII beheaded because he would not swear allegiance to the King as head of the Church in England. In those days, an ax was always carried in the boat with the prisoner, on his return to the Tower, after the trial. If the head of the ax was turned toward the victim, it was a sign that he was condemned. It was here, as I said, that Margaret Roper stood with the crowd, eagerly watching for the first glimpse of her beloved father; and when he came near and she saw the position of the ax, she broke away from the soldiers, and flung herself into her father’s arms. The two were so devoted that their story has always seemed an especially pathetic one to me. I suppose there were many like it, however.”
“Indeed there were, lady,” returned the guide, quite moved.
Just opposite Traitor’s Gate is the Bloody Tower, the most picturesque bit of the entire fortress. The old portcullis there is known as the only one in England which is still fit for use. At the side is an ancient and rusty iron ring, which attracted John’s attention so much that he asked about it.
“Boatmen coming through the Traitor’s Gate yonder, used to tie their boats to that ring,” the “beefeater” told them. “That shows you ’ow much farther h’up the water came in those days. H’in a room over the gateway of the Bloody Tower there, the Duke of Clarence, h’according to some, drowned himself in a butt of Malmsey wine; and in h’an adjoining room, they say that the little Princes were murdered by h’order of their uncle, the powerful Duke of Gloucester, who stole their right to the throne. Right ’ere, at the foot of these steps, is where ’e ’urriedly buried them, h’after ’is men ’ad smothered them.”
The children stood gazing at the little window over the gateway, their eyes big with horror. It did not seem as though such terrible things could have been done there in that little room, into which the sun now poured through the tiny window.
Every night at eleven o’clock, the warder on guard at the Bloody Tower challenges the Chief Warder, who passes bearing the keys. Each time this conversation follows:—
“Who goes there?”