“She will not die in peace unless she sees him,” replied Ruth. “Nor shall you have it, if you do not comply with her request.”
“How!” exclaimed her father, “do you dare——”
“Think not to terrify me, father,” interrupted Ruth; “I am resolute in this. Hear me,” she cried, seizing his arm, and fixing a look upon him that seemed to pierce his soul,—"hear me,” she said, in a tone so low as to be inaudible to her mother; “she shall see him, or I will denounce you as the murderer of Tresham. Now will you comply?”
“Give me the cross,” said Ipgreve.
“Not till you have earned it,” replied his daughter.
“Well, well,” he rejoined; “if it must be, it must. But I may get into trouble in the matter. I must consult Master Forsett, the gentleman jailer, who has the charge of Guy Fawkes, before I dare take him to her cell.”
“Consult whom you please,” rejoined Ruth, impatiently; “but lose no time, or you will be too late.”
Muttering imprecations on his daughter, Ipgreve left the Well Tower, and Ruth hurried back to Viviana, whom she found anxiously expecting her, and related to her what she had done.
“Oh, that I may hold out till he comes!” cried Viviana; “but my strength is failing fast.”
Ruth endeavoured to comfort her; but she was unequal to the effort, and bursting into tears, knelt down, and wept upon the pillow beside her. Half an hour had now elapsed. It seemed an age to the poor sufferers, and still the jailer came not, and even Ruth had given up all hope, when a heavy tread was heard in the passage; the door was opened; and Guy Fawkes appeared, attended by Ipgreve and Forsett.