Withers closed the door behind it—without going inside for his lanthorn. He did not desire light just then, nor the delay of getting one. He could return for the lamp at any time—after that pleasant occupation in which he anticipated engaging himself.
He only waited to secure the bolt against any chance of the prisoner’s attempting to come forth.
This occupied him scarce ten seconds of time; but short as was the delay, it lost him his expected pleasure.
As he turned round after locking the door, he heard the click of the wicket latch; and the moment after saw the cloaked form of his supposed sweetheart outlined in the opening. In another instant she had passed through slamming the wicket behind her!
Thinking there might still be a chance of securing the kiss, Withers ran to the front entrance; and, re-opening the wicket, stepped briskly outside.
“Confound the vixen!” he muttered, as he stood peering into the darkness; “I believe she be clear gone away! Mistress Betsey! Mistress Betsey! where are you, girl? Won’t you come back and keep your promise?”
As he made this appeal he fancied he saw her figure some score of yards out in front of the gateway; where the next moment it mysteriously disappeared, as if sinking into the earth!
Neither of his interrogatories met with a response. From the low tone in which he spoke, it was scarce likely he had been heard. He dared not call aloud—lest his voice might summon the guard from the inner court.
“Confound the vixen!” he once more muttered; “she be gone for certain, and’s tricked me out o’ that kiss.”
“It an’t so much matter, after all,” continued he, making a feint at self-consolation, “I can make up for it the morrow, by taking as many as I want. She’s afeerd to keep the lady waiting—whoever she be—and not getting the shiners that’s been promised her. She’s right, maybe. She knows she’ll see me again; so let her go.”