Confident in the attachment and fidelity of her domestics, the Lady Alice, in a few words, made known to them that the lives of these unfortunate men were in jeopardy, and that they sought from her kindness safety and concealment, and sharing in the benevolence of their mistress, each one of that well-tried household regarded the fugitives with generous sympathy.
An excellent supper, such as their famishing natures required, and a bottle of old wine, was soon placed before the weary men. They were then conducted by the Lady Alice herself to a room on the ground floor.
“Observe,” she said, “this oaken panel—press your finger thus; a door opens, leading into a secret passage, connected with the vaults of the old chapel, where, in case of emergency, you will be perfectly secure from search. Sleep, then, my friends, in peace, one of my most faithful servants will this night keep watch, and upon the least alarm, you will be notified in time to avail yourselves of the way of escape I have pointed out.”
As she bade them good-night, one of the men, seizing the hem of her mantle, carried it to his lips with a grace not unfitting the presence of a queen, while in the canting oratory of the day, his companion devoutly prayed the Most High to bless the woman, through whose assistance vengeance was yet to be heaped on the head of the scorner, and those who now sat in high places to be brought low.
And thus fortified and encouraged by the assurances of their noble benefactress, the fugitives took heart, and throwing themselves upon the bed, were soon soundly sleeping.
Not so the Lady Alice. True, these men had not revealed their names, neither had she sought to discover who they were, or for what crime they were driven to their present strait—yet that they fled the wrath of the cruel-minded Jeffreys she felt persuaded, and fearful that with his myrmidons he might be close on the track of these unhappy men, she, too, sat watching all the night, or pacing with light footfall the long galleries, ever and anon stepping out upon the balcony and listening to every sound, her fears magnifying the whispers of the wind stealing through the branches of the old trees, into the suppressed murmurs of an armed force. All, however, remained quiet. Just as the day began to dawn, she threw herself upon her couch—not meaning to sleep. But, overcome with the fatigue of her lonely night-watch, and lulled perhaps by the security which almost always comes to the watcher with the dawn of day, she soon unconsciously sunk into a deep sleep, from which, alas! she was but too rudely aroused; for even in that brief half hour when tired nature claimed its own, the wily Jeffreys had surrounded the house with his no less brutal soldiers.
“Come, come, madam, bestir yourself—you are wanted,” cried the leader, seizing the Lady Alice by the shoulder, and rudely shaking her; “methinks you sleep well this morning—long watching makes sound slumbers, eh! Come, up with you, woman, and tell us in what corner of this rebel’s nest you have stowed away the Presbyterian knave and his worthy friend?”
In a moment the lady was fully awake, and comprehended at once her perilous situation. But her self-possession did not forsake her, and breathing an inward prayer for the safety of the two unhappy men so closely pursued, she said, as she drew herself proudly up,
“What means this unmannerly intrusion? Off, sir! unhand me, or your audacity shall be punished as it deserves!”
“Ho-ho, my brave wench, words are cheap! you will find proofs not so easy! Know, mistress, yourself and your servants are my prisoners,” replied Jeffreys.