"Hush, cousin!" cried the earl, eagerly, "speak not the ill-omened word. Stay,—to endure days and nights of guarded doors; to eat viands served up poisoned by the jailor's touch; to see the sky but through those iron bars; alas! in my dreams, when heaven and its stars are before me, they are crossed and paled by those accursed lines. Give me but an hour to tread earth a free man—or, mark, cousin; sometimes I win good Roger to lead me to the roof of the White Tower; it is high, and overhangs the deep, dangerous river—the day you quit my side, I seek that tower, I leap from its height, and the cold waters shall drink up my being, rather than I endure another hour my prison-life."
"My dear, dear cousin," said York, "it is written by the Fates, and I yield—our fortunes shall be one. A few days now brings the hour; it will move along the dial; it will become a portion of past time—what it will leave us, is in the hands of God."
That hour came—full soon it came—the evening hour which preceded their escape. Long Roger served supper to the kinsmen, the last they were to partake within the fated walls. The poor fellow heaved a bitter sigh, as he waited by his lord's chair. "Thou art downcast, good Roger," said the earl, "pledge me, my man, in this ruby wine of Burgundy—think of to-morrow, not of to-night—to-morrow the deed will be done."
Roger quaffed the proffered bowl—he set it down with another sigh, almost a groan, adding, "Better drown reason than life in the vat!" Then recollecting to what he alluded, and before whom, he blushed scarlet to his very ears, and like a bashful man he made it worse by going on blunderingly, "I was never handy at these sort of things; it is for all the world like turning out of a warm bed on a cold snowy morning, only to think of them—and when they are about,—by the Cross, I thought no hole far enough or dark enough, when my lord your father—"
"Roger!" exclaimed Warwick.
The wine had not decreased the man's terror, but it had opened his mouth, and taken away his discretion; he continued: "It was an awful night. We all knew what was going to be done. I am sure, as Thomas Paulet said, we heard our very hearts beat. Then there was grim-faced Hobler, who at the judgment might be taken for the born twin of Master Abel, only he was taller by a span—even he looked uglier, nor spoke above his breath—'Is he at his prayers?' asked he, and Sir Brakenbury was as white as the earth itself—it was the beginning of Lent; and the snow lay three feet deep on it."
By no uncommon law of our nature, the dread design of the present night awoke keen recollection in the usually drowsy mind of this man. At first, with thrilling horror, Warwick interrupted him, but now the very terrors of the theme he chose assumed an awful charm—he was fascinated to listen, while his knees knocked together. Richard felt also the magic of such perilous excitement.
"Oh, Lord Edward," continued Roger, "these walls have seen fiendly sights—the blood of many a Plantagenet, York, or Lancaster, is on its pavement. Was it not in this room that the pious king Saint Henry, as Father Piers calls him—you will not sleep another night in it, so there is no harm now, telling you that his poor ghost has been seen on the battlements coming from this very chamber, where he was murthered."
The night wind rushed round the massy walls, the autumnal wind, fierce and howling—York started up. "No more of this unreason, while we need all our strength, and God's grace to boot, to nerve us to our task. Oh, ghost of Lancaster! if indeed thou hauntest this spot, where those akin to me did the foul deed, be thy pious soul propitiated now; many a mass shall be told for thy repose?"
Roger crossed himself, and said an Ave; then in his usual voice he rejoined, Would the thing did not require blood. Master Abel vows by the saints—'twere better when men make bad oaths to swear by the fiends—that Sir John must die; old wrinkled Astwood squeaks out, "By'r Lady, it were not worth while, with only promises for reward, if we have not the rifling of the lieutenant's private chamber. They are bloody-minded men, my lord; Mat Strangeways, when he is sober, and I, fasting or feasting, hold out that we might bind him, and get the keys.' 'Blockhead,' says Master Blewet, saving your presence, 'thou goest the way to hang us all.'"