“No,” replied Bet, “not exact at twelve, but soon after. He told me not to come near, until the guard had been changed awhile, and the men relieved—I think he called it—should go back into the courtyard.”
“How war ye to know that?”
“He said he would set the lamp down upon the pavement, close to the big door. When I should see the light shining out at the bottom, I was to tap at the wicket, and he’d open it.”
“Well, it be shinin’ out at the bottom now, and has been for some time—before the clock struck. Is that the way he meant it?”
“No. There’s a hole—where the cats go out and in. He’s to put the lamp there.”
“Then it han’t been sot there yet. We must keep a sharp look out for’t. ’Twon’t do to lose a preecious minnit. Thee be sure he sayed, he’d let thee speak wi’ Master Henry?”
“He did; he promised me faithfully—I had to give him a promise.”
“What did thee promise him, my gull?” demanded Dancey, in a serious tone.
“Oh, nothing much, father,” replied Bet, “nothing much; considering what I did it for.”
“Never mind your daughter, Dancey. She be old enough to take care o’ herself. The gurl ’ll do what’s right, I warrant her.”