THE Lady of Whitburn lingered from day to day, sometimes showing signs of consciousness, and of knowing her daughter, but never really reviving. At the end of a fortnight she seemed for one day somewhat better, but that night she had a fresh attack, and was so evidently dying that the priest, Sir Lucas, was sent for to bring her the last Sacrament. The passing bell rang out from the church, and the old man, with his little server before him, came up the stair, and was received by Grisell, Thora, and one or two other servants on their knees. Ridley was not there. For even then, while the priest was crossing the hall, a party of spearmen, with a young knight at their head, rode to the gate and demanded entrance. The frightened porter hurried to call Master Ridley, who, instead of escorting the priest with the Host to his dying lady, had to go to the gate, where he recognised Sir Leonard Copeland, far from dead, in very different guise from that in which he had been brought to the castle before. He looked, however, awed, as he said, bending his head— “Is it sooth, Master Ridley? Is death beforehand with me?” “My old lady is _in extremis_, sir,” replied Ridley. “Poor soul, she hath never spoken since she heard of my lord’s death and his son’s.” “The younger lad? Lives here?” demanded Copeland. “Is it as I have heard?” “Aye, sir. The child passed away on the Eve of St. Luke. I have my lady’s orders,” he added reluctantly, “to open the castle to you, as of right.” “It is well,” returned Sir Leonard. Then, turning round to the twenty men who followed him, he said, “Men-at-arms, as you saw and heard, there is death here. Draw up here in silence. This good esquire will see that you have food and fodder for the horses. Kemp, Hardcastle,” to his squires, “see that all is done with honour and respect as to the lady of the castle and mine. Aught unseemly shall be punished.” Wherewith he dismounted, and entered the narrow little court, looking about him with a keen, critical, soldierly eye, but speaking with low, grave tones. “I may not tarry,” he said to Ridley, “but this place, since it falls to me and mine, must be held for the King and Queen.” “My lady bows to your will, sir,” returned Ridley. Copeland continued to survey the walls and very antiquated defences, observing that there could have been few alarms there. This lasted till the rites in the sick-room were ended, and the priest came forth. “Sir,” he said to Copeland, “you will pardon the young lady. Her mother is _in articulo mortis_, and she cannot leave her.” “I would not disturb her,” said Leonard. “The Saints forbid that I should vex her. I come but as in duty bound to damn this Tower on behalf of King Harry, Queen Margaret, and the Prince of Wales against all traitors. I will not tarry here longer than to put it into hands who will hold it for them and for me. How say you, Sir Squire?” he added, turning to Ridley, not discourteously.