“Oh, Lord, the poor mad old gentleman,” thought Phœbe—“Oh, sir, had you not better leave alone playbooks, and think of your end?” uttered she aloud, in sheer terror and vexation of spirit.
“If I had not made up my mind to that many days since,” answered the knight, “I had not now met this hour with a free bosom—
‘As gentle and as jocund as to rest,
Go I to death—truth hath a quiet breast.’”
As he spoke, a broad glare of light flashed from without, through the windows of the hall, and betwixt the strong iron stanchions with which they were secured—a broad discoloured light it was, which shed a red and dusky illumination on the old armour and weapons, as if it had been the reflection of a conflagration. Phœbe screamed aloud, and, forgetful of reverence in the moment of passion, clung close to the knight’s cloak and arm, while Dame Jellicot, from her solitary niche, having the use of her eyes, though bereft of her hearing, yelled like an owl when the moon breaks out suddenly.
“Take care, good Phœbe,” said the knight; “you will prevent my using my weapon if you hang upon me thus.—The bungling fools cannot fix their petard without the use of torches! Now let me take the advantage of this interval.—Remember what I told thee, and how to put off time.”
“Oh, Lord—ay, sir,” said Phœbe, “I will say any thing, Oh, Lord, that it were but over!—Ah! ah!”—(two prolonged screams)—“I hear something hissing like a serpent.”
“It is the fusee, as we martialists call it,” replied the knight; “that is, Phœbe, the match which fires the petard, and which is longer or shorter, according to the distance.”
Here the knight’s discourse was cut short by a dreadful explosion, which, as he had foretold, shattered the door, strong as it was, to pieces, and brought down the glass clattering from the windows with all the painted heroes and heroines, who had been recorded on that fragile place of memory for centuries. The women shrieked incessantly, and were answered by the bellowing of Bevis, though shut up at a distance from the scene of action. The knight, shaking Phœbe from him with difficulty, advanced into the hall to meet those who rushed in, with torches lighted and weapons prepared.
“Death to all who resist—life to those who surrender!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “Who commands this garrison?”
“Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley,” answered the old knight, stepping forward; “who, having no other garrison than two weak women, is compelled to submit to what he would willingly have resisted.”