At this the man gave way a little; he sent a yeoman for the captain of the watch, but he kept the wicket closed and stood grim and silent, looking out upon them. The torchlight flared up and down, the water rippled below them on the stone steps—it seemed like the tongue of a hungry wolf lapping blood—and there was silence.
At last came the echo of heavy feet upon the stone floor, the rattle of arms, and the tall, gray-headed captain came to the wicket and looked out, inexorable as fate, though his eyes changed a little at the sight of Lady Clancarty, common as a woman’s grief was there. He listened to Mackie’s explanation, gravely respectful but unrelenting.
“I ask only to see him—to share his fate,” Betty said, as Sir Edward concluded, “’tis so little!”
But the officer shook his head.
“Nay, madam,” he replied kindly, “not without the king’s orders.”
“At least permit her to see her husband, to speak with him,” urged Sir Edward.
“’Tis a small thing to grant me,” cried Betty, “I pray you, sir, think of your own wife in a like case, and show compassion on the unfortunate!”
“Nay, madam, I need no urging,” said the captain, “if it were in my power—but it is not; since the last assassination plot we have been strictly enjoined to guard our prisoners of state and hedge them in with every precaution. Your case is in higher hands than mine. Surely, Lady Clancarty, you can obtain influence enough to grant your wish,—your father, Secretary Vernon.”
“My father,” Lady Clancarty repeated bitterly, as she stood thinking, her white face downcast.
The two men exchanged significant glances; neither of them had hope. Clancarty was scarcely an object for the king’s clemency; he was a notorious Jacobite, a man of daring, whose personal prominence as an Irish earl, no less than his political affiliations, marked him out for probable example.