By a private stairway the trusty Tyrrel slipped in from the gate, where he waited impatiently, felt their pulses to be certain there was no life left, and sought the Tower priest to make him help in hiding the devilish deed. They carried the warm bodies down. Oh, what a sight it was! the soft limbs not yet stiffened for the grave, the delicate hands dragging the steps. Without coffin, shroud, or winding-sheet, with neither hymn nor prayer, they were thrown into a hole dug by the wall. Rapidly the grave was filled with loose soil and stones from scattered building-material left lying in heaps some months before; then the pit was smoothed till there was no sign of disturbance or violence, silence settled over all, and the tragedy seemed ended forever. "Trusty" Tyrrel mounted his horse and rode in the dewy daybreak along green lanes and blossoming hedges to the palace. He was cruel as a blood-hound, yet tears ran down his face like rain when he described to the satisfied monarch how the "gentle babes," his brother's sons, would trouble the kingdom no more. [Illustration: THE TOWER OF MANY STORIES.] Richard had been crowned with great pomp, feasting, and shouting. He sat on a marble seat in Westminster Hall, with a nobleman on each side, and told the crowd assembled there he meant to be just and maintain the laws and respect the rights of his people. But this was mere talk. The reign begun in murder continued the same way. His spies learned that titled subjects drank healths in private to the Princes in the Tower, and he thought best to announce the truth, though he had intended to keep their fate a secret. Besides, Uncle Richard's sleep was broken by bad dreams come of the hideous sin. The crown of his nephew did not rest easy on his head, bloody fingers pulled at it; the lights burned blue at midnight; strange calls, as from desolate shores, answered each other across his bed; he heard muffled groans, and ghosts that would not down sat heavy on his soul. Eyes starting from their sockets glared at him; visions of baby throats purple with strangling and pale faces bedabbled with blood haunted the pillow of the last Plantagenet. He woke in a cold sweat of terror from dreams of a tomb which opened of itself; where the earth cracked with a hollow noise and showed a coffin wide and short, and hair living and golden streaming out under the lid. [Illustration: RICHARD'S NEPHEWS.] Were the boys indeed buried? And why should their white souls ride the winds on crimson clouds in the dead hours of the night? To banish the spectres and quiet the shrieks in his ears he commanded the Tower chaplain to unearth the corpses and have them better placed, under the marble floor of some shrine or safe in a corner of the court-yard of the Tower. It was done. None ever knew when or with what holy rite they were buried the second time, because the priest soon afterward died, and with him went the knowledge of their resting-place.