“No—no, dear young lady,” rejoined Dame Ipgreve, in a whining tone, which was infinitely more disagreeable to Viviana than her previous harshness, “I cannot leave you in this state. Raise her head, Ruth, while I pour a few drops of the cordial down her throat.”
“I will not taste it,” replied Viviana, putting the flask aside.
“You would find it a sovereign restorative,” replied Dame Ipgreve, with a mortified look; “but as you please. I will not urge you against your inclination. The provisions I have been obliged to bring you are too coarse for a daintily-nurtured maiden like you,—but you shall have others presently.”
“It is needless,” rejoined Viviana. “Pray leave me.”
“Well, well, I am going,” rejoined Dame Ipgreve, hesitating. “Do you want to write to any one? I can find means of conveying a letter secretly out of the Tower.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Viviana, raising herself. “And yet no—no—I dare not trust you.”
“You may,” replied the avaricious old woman,—"provided you pay me well.”
“I will think of it,” returned Viviana. “But I have not strength to write now.”
“You must not give way thus,—indeed, you must not, dear lady,” said Ruth, in a voice of great kindness. “It will not be safe to leave you. Suffer me to remain with you.”
“Willingly,” replied Viviana; “most willingly.”