“Met her! Whom?”
“Why the young girl you sent to speak with him inside.”
“I—I—sent no one.”
These monosyllabic words were pronounced with a choking utterance, that betrayed something more than surprise.
“O-ah!” muttered the sentry to himself, “there’s another, then, as has private business with my prisoner. Hang this Holtspur! All the fine ladies in the land appear to be runnin’ after him. Well; I won’t make fish o’ one and flesh o’ ’tother. This un shall have her chance as well as the one that sent Betsey; and since she’s come herself, instead of doing the thing by deputy, she desarves to have at least as good an opportunity as the tother. Fair play in love as well as in war—that be Will Withers’ way o’ thinking.”
“I say Mistress,” continued he, once more addressing himself to the lady. “I have no objection to your going inside a minute—if ye promise me not to make it long.”
“Oh! I promise it good Withers! You shall not go unrewarded. Take this in return for your generous kindness.”
At these words, the jewelled hand reappeared outside the foldings of the velvet—this time with its palm held upward. Another gleam just then illuminated the atmosphere—enabling the sentry to perceive the bounteous bribe that was offered to him. The outspread palm was covered with coins—as many as could lie upon it. Surely it was not the electric light that had given to them their yellow tint? No. Withers could not be mistaken. The coins were gold!
Without saying a word, he stretched out his own large paw till it touched the delicate fingers of the lady; and then, permitting the pieces of gold to slip into his palm, he quickly transferred them to his pocket.
“Your hand, Mistress, for another purpose,” said he, holding out his own to take it; and as the trembling fingers were deposited within his, he stepped sideways inside the wicket, leading the lady after him.