work his freedom, therefore, was not a bad deed, but
a good one; nor could it fairly be called treachery to circumvent a
traitor.

The keys were safely secreted in Constance's jewel-box until the night
appointed for the rescue came.

It proved to be fair, but cloudy, with a low damp mist filling the vale
of the Thames. Bertram took no one into his confidence but his own
squire, William Maydeston, whom he posted in the forest, at a sufficient
distance from the Castle, in charge of the four horses necessary to
mount the party.

The Princess went to bed as usual--about eight o'clock, for she kept
late hours for her time--with Maude and Eva in attendance. Both were
dismissed; and Eva at least went peacefully to sleep, in happy ignorance
of the kind of awakening which was in store for her. At half-past ten,
an hour then esteemed in the middle of the night, Maude, according to
instructions previously received, softly opened the door of her lady's
bedchamber. She found her not only risen, but already fully equipped
for her journey, and in a state of feverish excitement. She came out at
once, and they joined Bertram, who was waiting in the corridor outside.
The little trio of plotters crept slowly down the stairs, and across the
court-yard to the foot of the Beauchamp Tower, within which the children
were confined. It was necessary to use the utmost caution, to avoid
being heard by the sentinels. Bertram fitted the false key into the
great iron lock of the outer door. The door opened, but with such a
creak that Maude shuddered in terror lest the sentinels should hear it.
She was reassured by a peal of laughter which came from beyond the wall.
The sentinels were awake, but were making too much noise themselves to
be easily roused to action. Then the party went silently up into the
Beauchamp Tower, unlocked the door which they sought, and leaving
Bertram outside it to give an alarm if necessary, Constance and Maude
entered the first of the two rooms.

A white, frightened face was the first thing they saw. In the outer
chamber, as the less valuable pair of prisoners, slept the sisters, Anne
and Alianora Mortimer, whose ages were fifteen and eleven. Alianora,
the younger, slept quietly; but Anne sat up, wide awake, and said in a
tremulous voice which she tried in vain to render firm--

"What is it? Are you a spirit?"

Constance was by her side in a moment, and assured the girl at least of
her humanity by taking