She had slightly known the young man, previous to his enlistment into the corps of cuirassiers; and although he had since passed through a malignant school, she could scarcely believe him so bad as those with whom he was associating.
At that crisis, however, it mattered little how bad he might be. She had gone too far to think of withdrawing from the danger. She was too near the man she loved—with the full, fierce ardour of her outcast heart—too near to go back, without making an effort to see, and, if possible, save him. As the thought of his danger came once more before her mind, she threw aside all regard for consequences; and, advancing with fearless step, she knocked gently, but resolutely, against the door.
Close succeeding this preconcerted signal, the tread of a trooper’s boot was heard on the pavement inside, and with a subdued sound that denoted caution. Some one was approaching the wicket.
On reaching the door, the footfall ceased to be heard; and the wicket was opened with a silence, that bespoke expectancy, on the part of him who drew back the bolt.
Very different from the salutation of a sentry—the bold brusque “Who goes there?”—was the soft whisper that fell upon the ears of the person claiming admission.
“Is it you, sweet Betsey?” asked the soldier; and then, without waiting for a verbal answer to his interrogatory, he continued: “Come in, dear girl! I have been so longing for twelve o’clock, I thought it would never strike up there. I believe the old timepiece be out o’ tune. It an’t often I’m so weary for my turn o’ the night guard. Come in!”
The girl having got over the slight shiver of timidity—that had temporarily possessed her—accepted the invitation; and, stepping over the threshold of the wicket, stood inside the arched entrance which formed a covered passage between the gate and the courtyard beyond.
This passage was only illuminated by the lanthorn; which, from its position at the bottom of the door—where it had been placed to effect the signal—gave out but a feeble light. As Withers, at that moment, had no wish for a better, the lamp was allowed to remain where he had placed it.
There was enough light proceeding from it to show the side door conducting into the storeroom—the improvised prison of Henry Holtspur—which was the chief point the sentry had been instructed to guard. Upon this door the eyes of his visitor became directed, as soon as she had entered under the archway; and to it her glance kept constantly returning—despite the efforts of Withers to fix it upon himself.
He could not help observing the air of abstraction with which his supposed sweetheart listened to his protestations of love. He noticed her glance repeatedly directed towards the door of the storeroom, with an eagerness that caused him some chagrin; though he was only annoyed, that so little attention was being paid to his own blandishments.