“Oh Lord, sir, what shall I do?” said Phœbe, looking to the knight; “they know all about it. What shall I do?”
“For thy life, hold out to the last, wench! Every minute is worth a million.”
“Ha! heard you that, Pearson?” said Cromwell to the officer; then, stamping with his foot, he added, “Undo the spring, or I will else use levers and wrenching-irons—Or, ha! another petard were well bestowed— Call the engineer.”
“O Lord, sir,” cried Phœbe, “I shall never live another peter—I will open the spring.”
“Do as thou wilt,” said Sir Henry; “it shall profit them but little.”
Whether from real agitation, or from a desire to gain time, Phœbe was some minutes ere she could get the spring to open; it was indeed secured with art, and the machinery on which it acted was concealed in the frame of the portrait. The whole, when fastened, appeared quite motionless, and betrayed, as when examined by Colonel Everard, no external mark of its being possible to remove it. It was now withdrawn, however, and showed a narrow recess, with steps which ascended on one side into the thickness of the wall. Cromwell was now like a greyhound slipped from the leash with the prey in full view.—“Up,” he cried, “Pearson, thou art swifter than I—Up thou next, corporal.” With more agility than could have been expected from his person or years, which were past the meridian of life, and exclaiming, “Before, those with the torches!” he followed the party, like an eager huntsman in the rear of his hounds, to encourage at once and direct them, as they penetrated into the labyrinth described by Dr. Rochecliffe in the “Wonders of Woodstock.”
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.
The King, therefore, for his defence
Against the furious Queen,
At Woodstock builded such a bower,
As never yet was seen.
Most curiously that bower was built,
Of stone and timber strong;
An hundred and fifty doors
Did to this bower belong;
And they so cunningly contrived,
With turnings round about,
That none but with a clew of thread
Could enter in or out.
BALLAD OF FAIR ROSAMOND.