With cramped limbs, but a lightened heart, Ruth rose and once more approached to close the pane, which she had again unfastened, after first noiselessly closing Maudlin's door. Well, bed was after all no such uncomfortable place, she thought, as the dank air blew in on her face, "when the clock must be close on--hark! yes: ding-dang! ding-dang! ding-dang! Absolutely but wanting one hour--ding-dang--to midnight! Such an unearthly ding--terrible--dang."-- CHAPTER XIV. IN THE WARDER'S ROOM. Ding! Like some guilt-stricken creature Ruth stood with her hands upon the half-closed pane. Lingeringly and drearily the sound died in a low angry growl of wind, that came sweeping up muffled and sullen as some vexed human voice. Hark! hark! surely that is a human voice!--voices! And that? No steady drip-drip of the rain from the mullions of the casement, but footsteps stealthily passing along the arched way below, and beginning to ascend the stair winding to the Warder's Room! Impossible! Sure she must be growing more fanciful than old Maudlin's self? No, no; 'tis but the tiresome rats again, holding their witches' sabbath? What else can it be? The sudden flash of a torch full across her window illumines the pitchy blackness below; and then, as if hurled by some violent and angry hand, the torch falls into the water and is extinguished. [Sidenote: Ruth on the watch.] Not quickly enough, however, to conceal from Ruth the gigantic outlines of the drawbridge, gliding higher and closer, till it is lost in the shadow of the wall, and at the same time the clank of its chains, more felt than heard, with their dull familiar vibrating, ceases. Who can have been tampering with them? Surely not Adam Lockit. Rather than be unfaithful to his trust, and let down his bridge after sunset, he would dispute every ounce of it with his life's blood. But what about Barnaby? Barnaby! and even at that moment Ruth cannot forbear a smile at the bare notion of Master Diggles' Dutch courage displaying its mettle within six hours of either side of midnight. Even supposing he could have performed the miracle of stealing a march on Lockit, and getting possession of the gatehouse keys. No. One alone, beside Adam Lockit, has the means of working those chains--the master of the Rye House himself. Spell-bound and breathless, Ruth stands listening to the stealthy but heavy tramp tramp of those feet mounting the stone stair which leads from the arched door in the wall of the gateway to the Warder's Room. Soon the sounds cease; to be quickly broken again by hurried whispers and the low hum of voices. Muffled and indistinctly as they reach her ear, the tones seem familiar to Ruth, and her heart stands still. What--what if Lawrence--? Hardly has his name escaped her pale parted lips before with swift noiseless tread she has stolen to the wall, and falling on her knees before the sliding panel, slips it back, and stepping into the darkness beyond, crouches down.