Poor Roger followed him to the door, then turning to the princes; "My royal masters," said he, "if this deed goes ill, and I never see ye more, by Christ and his Cross, I pray a blessing on ye; if I may pray, but by the mass I fear I shall never pray, nor sup more."
They were gone—Warwick strove to look, to be firm, but he grew ashy white—a door clapped to at a distance made him almost faint. Richard was pale also; but his hand shook not in the least, as he presented a cup of wine to his cousin. "Give me water rather," said the earl, shuddering, "that cup is red—hark—it is his groans!"
"It is the wind around the turret, where my liege and brother died," said York, endeavouring to give other thoughts to the poor prince, who cried,—
"It is the hell-born laugh of fiends viewing the deed." With the breeze indeed came a sound of laughter. "Are we betrayed!" cried York: but the sound passed away in wailing. Warwick was on his knees—"I cannot pray," he cried, "a sea of blood is before me."
"Hush!"
Steps now approached along the corridor, and Blewet, his stained, half-wiped knife in his hand, appeared—Again the monosyllable "Come," was pronounced—fraught with how different a meaning. A life had been torn from an innocent breast since then by that fell instrument. The princes, awe-struck, one trembling with dread, the other striving to quell his horror for a murderer, followed him, as he led through the gallery—at the end stood Astwood with a bunch of keys—there were no stains on his hands; he looked anxious, but brightened up when he saw the prisoners.
They trod stealthily along. Warwick's faltering steps scarce kept pace with their conductor's. After passing through many narrow high passages, they reached a low postern door. Astwood put the key in the lock—the sound was magical to the fearful earl. "Farewell, old frightful walls," he cried; "farewell, dark murderous prison-house, the Foul Fiend possess thee! such is my benison."
Blewet looked at him—York marked the sarcasm, the scorn of his glance—the gate meanwhile was opened; at that moment a clash of arms was heard. "The sentinels at the eastern gate," remarked Abel.
"God grant it!" cried Warwick, "God grant—yet can it be! and am I free?"
He rushed through the open door, intent to seize upon liberty, as Tantalus on his forbidden feast—his first step beyond the
