"And I—and I," said several voices.
Ascending a narrow spiral flight of stone steps, the comrades gained the summit of St. Barbara's Tower. Rearing itself sixty feet above the ground and thirty feet above the line of battlemented walls, this building was crowned by a low breastwork, and roofed with large slabs of stone sufficiently sloping to carry off the rainwater, but at the same time capable of being walked upon without difficulty.
"Ha! The mist rises a little!" exclaimed one. "Though 'twill be only for a time."
"I can perceive the watch-fire," remarked another, indicating the dull glow of the burning wood in an open brazier that at night or in thick weather was always fired on the summit of the Water Gate.
"Ho! Peterkin—Simon!" shouted a hoarse voice immediately below them. "Out on ye for scurvy knaves! Hasten and bring oars, or I'll lay my staff athwart your backs!"
"'Tis old John Draper, the water-bailiff," remarked one of the archers. "Some vessel hath found her way up the Water, and he's going to board her."
They heard the oars tossed into the boat, and the rasping voice of the water-bailiff as he descended the stone steps of the quay and stepped into the boat. Then the sound of oars straining against the tholepins grew fainter and fainter, till the little craft was lost to sight and sound in the dense fog.
Suddenly a piercing shriek, followed by the dull noise of a heavy splash, fell upon the ears of the archers in the tower.
"What's that?" inquired one, his indifference changed into alert activity.
"Nothing, thick head—except, perhaps, that old Draper hath missed his foothold and received a ducking!"