Young Mackie looking at the dark outline of her figure against the gray river, felt all this keenly and admired her the more. She was a woman to die for, he thought, and turned his boyish face away, for he dared not look at her—it tried him too far.
Something in her mood seemed to cast a spell upon the boatmen; the wherry swept on in silence, save for the sound of the oars and the ripple of water under its bow. The lights of the city, feeble lanterns swung across the narrow, reeking streets, gleamed dimly; the river was as still as death.
At last the frowning bastions of the Tower—that inexorable fortress, dark with secrets, grim as Fate,—cast their black shadow over them. And then,—Betty’s heart stood still—the boat turned and began to creep under the vaulted arch at the Traitor’s Gate. The faint gleaming of night upon the waters narrowed behind them and was swallowed up in darkness, while before, the red lights at the gate began to shine. The boat jarred on the steps. She looked up and saw the closed wicket and the guard of yeomen looking down, and suddenly despair seized upon her and she trembled so that Mackie had almost to lift her from the boat.
Then arose the question of admittance. She wished to see the warden; but Sir Edward knew this was no easy matter and resorted to a stratagem.
“We come from Mr. Secretary Vernon,” he said boldly, with an air of authority.
The sergeant at the gate hesitated, and asked for a permit.
“The matter is pressing,” Mackie said firmly; “we must be admitted.”
The sergeant shook his head, looking gravely out upon them. A yeoman lifted his torch and the light streamed on Lady Betty’s beautiful face.
“I cannot admit you at this hour,” the old soldier replied firmly but not unkindly; “my orders are explicit.”
Betty’s face changed and seemed to shrink into childish proportions; she held out her hands pitifully.