“Yield you up? A pretty thought! I would rather we all perished together ’neath the stones of the old house. Yield and facilitate, forsooth! Nay, we will even hold the place bolt and bar. An our message have reached the Tower, ’twill go hard with us if the gates do not stand till succour comes. How, hand thee over to yon infamous wretch, who useth the extremity of the city, the blind folly of the mob, the helplessness of a poor house of gentlewomen, to the furthering of his own base purposes! As for my threat that you would take the vows,”—she gave a dry chuckle,—“I’ve overshot the mark, it seems. I deemed to show thee as out of reach of his pursuit. Well, ’tis ill talking when so much is a-doing. Hark ye at that, ’tis the fiercest onslaught yet. Get thee to the chapel. I must to the outer hall.” “Nay,” quoth Diana, “I go with you.” The two kinswomen looked at each other for a second with a mutual pride; then, without further word, they went together to the great outer hall, reverberating now to its vaulted roof as hammer strokes fell upon the iron-studded door. The stolid, elderly red-headed porter came forth from a deep embrasure,—where he had been philosophically, it seemed, listening to the progress of the attack,—and with a hand on each arm drew them in their turn into the shelter out of reach of stone and shots. “Will the door hold, think you, Bindon?” asked his reverend mistress, briskly. “Aye,” quoth Bindon, “good iron, stout oak!—So they lay not gunpowder.” “And so they do, what then?” Bindon lifted his hand in slight but expressive gesture. Then his small eye rolled from the old face to the young. “Eh, but ye be two brave women—not a blanch, not a squeak!” “Sho!” said the Abbess, with a tolerant smile. “And why should I fear death? Have I not been dead these forty years?” “And why should I fear death,” said Diana’s young voice, “since life has naught left for me?” “I hope you’ll not be taken at your word, ladies,” said Bindon, with the familiarity of long service. “Nay, look you, I’m none so ready myself! But,” he went on, “I like not this pause without: there may be gunpowder in it. And by your leave, I’ll creep round to the lookout. Eh, ’tis time the guards should arrive, in faith!” As his burly figure had moved out of sight, Madam Anastasia turned with some asperity:— “Indeed, Mistress Harcourt, I marvel at you! Life nothing left for you, forsooth? Tut, tut! Is not the best part of it before you? What have you done with your good youth, answer me that—not even borne a soul to God’s service?” “Why, mother,” Diana exclaimed, and the tears sprang to her eyes. “Do you know my history, and chide me? Oh, I am dead, and this is my tomb. And truly, ’tis best so; since, when I lived in the world, I brought—God knows unwittingly—dire sorrow on two noble hearts that loved me.” The Abbess thrust her hands impatiently up her big sleeves.