Sir William was not altogether pleased at being pushed forward upon the errand, but he was too kind-hearted to blame his niece, who was so deeply distressed already. So he made the best of an unpleasant business and walked briskly to the wharf, where Cromwell’s servant obtained a wherry with a readiness that increased Sir William’s uneasiness. However, it seemed but an ordinary river craft, manned by four stout oarsmen, who haggled, as usual, over the fare. But Carew was so liberally inclined that in a few moments the bargain was completed and the three set out on their voyage. Betty’s face was muffled, and she sat quietly by her uncle as the boat travelled swiftly over the waters. They crossed that part of the river which was most thickly crowded with shipping, but the young girl had no eyes save for the low dark walls of the Tower, which presently came in sight. She shuddered when the boatmen, obeying the directions of Cromwell’s servant, turned under the dusky bastion to the Traitor’s Gate. The tide was rising and bore the wherry under the low arch to the stone steps, where the water lapped gently as it rose. Above them the arch was closed by a wicket of heavy wooden cross-bars, and behind this rose the causeway leading to the prison. On the other side of the wicket could be seen the sentries on guard. This was the view before them; behind, looking back through the arch, was the sunshine on the river, the gay life of the world. Here, but a short while before, had entered More and Fisher, the Charterhouse monks, and the unhappy Queen of England--a strange company! Sir William and Mistress Betty alighted on the stone steps, and the wicket was promptly opened at the warrant of the privy seal, which also ensured the visitors a respectful welcome. Without more delay than naturally accompanied the formalities of a military prison, they were shown into the presence of Sir William Kingston, who received Carew with every mark of kindness, as an old acquaintance. “I am well pleased to see you,” he said, “and better pleased that you come not as a permanent guest.” “God forbid!” said Sir William Carew, bluntly; “but I come to see one of your guests, Kingston; my friend, Simon Raby.” The officer’s face became grave at once. “I am sorry for his case,” he said; “he was the last I looked for. He will be glad to welcome you, for he takes not kindly to confinement.” As he spoke, he led the way to the rooms near the chapel, and having a warder with him, soon caused a door to be unbolted and signed to Carew to enter. “You have the privy seal’s warrant,” he said, “and yonder you will find the prisoner.”