The constable turned the key of the door and left the room. Jem-y-Lord came puffing and perspiring.
“The ex-Governor is coming over by the green, sir. He'll be here in a moment.”
“My wig and gown, Jemmy,” said Philip.
“Deemster's wig, your Excellency?”—“Yes.”
“Last time you'll wear it, sir.”
“The last, indeed, my lad.”
There was a clash of steel outside, followed by the beat of drum.
“He's here,” said Jem-y-Lord.
Philip listened. The rattling noise came to him through opening doors and reverberating corridors like the trampling of a wave to a man imprisoned in a cave.
“She'll hear it, too.” That thought was with him constantly. In his mind's eye he was seeing Kate, crouching in the fire-seat of the palace room that was now her prison, and covering her ears to deaden the joyous sounds that broke the usual silence of the gloomy walls.