“I have it,” said Viviana, in a low tone, and imitating as well as she could the accents of Ruth. “Here it is.”
“Did she give it thee?” cried the old woman, getting up, and grasping Viviana's lacerated fingers with such force, that she had difficulty in repressing a scream. “Did she give it thee, I say?”
“She gave it me for you,” gasped Viviana. “Take it.”
While the old woman held the chain to the fire, and called to her husband to light a lamp, that she might feast her greedy eyes upon it, Viviana flew to the door.
Just as she reached it, the shrill voice of Dame Ipgreve arrested her.
“Come back!” cried the dame. “Whither art thou going at this time of night? I will not have thee stir forth. Come back, I say.”
“Pshaw! let her go,” interposed Ipgreve. “I dare say she hath an appointment on the Green with young Nicholas Hardesty, the warder. Go, wench. Be careful of thyself, and return within the hour.”
“If she does not, she will rue it,” added the dame. “Go, then, and I will see the prisoner.”
Viviana required no further permission. Starting off as she had been directed on the left, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her; and, passing between two arched gateways, soon reached the By-ward Tower. Showing the pass to the warder, he chucked her under the chin, and, drawing an immense bolt, opened the wicket, and gallantly helped her to pass through it. The like good success attended her at the Middle Tower, and at the Bulwark Gate. Scarcely able to credit her senses, and doubting whether she was indeed free, she hurried on till she came to the opening leading to the stairs at Petty Wales. As she hesitated, uncertain what to do, a man advanced towards and addressed her by name. It was Humphrey Chetham. Overcome by emotion, Viviana sank into his arms, and in another moment she was placed in a wherry, which was ordered to be rowed towards Westminster.