The boat was now challenged by the sentinels—merely as a matter of form, for its arrival was expected,—and almost before the answer could be returned by those on board, a wicket, composed of immense beams of wood, was opened, and the boat shot beneath the gloomy arch. Never had Jane experienced a feeling of such horror as now assailed her—and if she had been crossing the fabled Styx she could not have felt greater dread. Her blood seemed congealed within her veins as she gazed around. The lurid light of the torches fell upon the black dismal arch—upon the slimy walls, and upon the yet blacker tide. Nothing was heard but the sullen ripple of the water, for the men had ceased rowing, and the boat impelled by their former efforts soon struck against the steps. The shock recalled Jane to consciousness. Several armed figures bearing torches were now seen to descend the steps. The customary form of delivering the warrant, and receiving an acknowledgement for the bodies of the prisoners being gone through, Lord Clinton, who stood upon the lowest step, requested Jane to disembark. Summoning all her resolution, she arose, and giving her hand to the officer, who stood with a drawn sword beside her, was assisted by him and a warder to land. Lord Clinton received her as she set foot on the step. By his aid she slowly ascended the damp and slippery steps, at the summit of which, two personages were standing, whom she instantly recognised as Renard and De Noailles. The former regarded her with a smile of triumph, and said in a tone of bitter mockery as she passed him—“So—Epiphany is over. The Twelfth Day Queen has played her part.”
“My lord,” said Jane, turning disdainfully from him to Lord Clinton—“will it please you to conduct me to my lodging?”
“What he! warders,” cried Lord Clinton, addressing the gigantic brethren who were standing near—“Conduct Lady Jane Dudley to Master Partridge’s dwelling till her chamber within the Brick Tower is prepared. Lord Guilford Dudley must be taken to the Beauchamp Tower.”
“Are we to be separated?” cried Jane.
“Such are the Queen’s commands,” replied Lord Clinton, in a tone of deep commiseration.
“The Queen’s!” exclaimed Jane.
“Ay! the Queen’s!” repeated Renard. “Queen Mary of England, whom Heaven long preserve!”