“I should think they’d call it ‘The Towers,’ instead of ‘The Tower,’” remarked Betty, surveying the curious, irregular jumble of buildings before her, as they left the bus.

“That’s true,” Mrs. Pitt agreed; “but I suppose the name was first given to the White Tower, which is the oldest part and was built by William the Conqueror as long ago as 1080. Why did they call it the White Tower? Well, I believe it was because they whitewashed the walls in the thirteenth century. Why, what’s the matter, John?”

“I want to see who those fellows in the funny red uniforms are,” John called back, as he ran ahead.

When they reached the entrance, they saw John admiring a group of these “fellows,” who stood just inside the gate. In reality, they are old soldiers who have served the King well, and are therefore allowed to be the keepers and guides of the Tower. They bear the strange name of “beefeaters” (a word grown from the French “buffetiers”), and are very picturesque in their gorgeous scarlet uniforms, covered with gilt trimmings and many badges, a style of costume which these custodians have worn ever since the time of Henry VIII, and which was designed by the painter, Holbein.

Any one may pay sixpence for a ticket which entitles him to wander about the precincts of the Tower, and to see the “Crown Jewels,” and the armory, but Mrs. Pitt, being more ambitious for her young friends, had obtained a permit from the Governor of the Tower. This she presented to the “beefeater” who stood by the first gateway, after they had crossed the great empty moat. The old man stepped to a tiny door behind him, opened it, disclosing a small, winding stair, and called “Warder! Party, please!”

A venerable “beefeater” with white hair and beard came in answer to the summons, and bowing politely to the party, immediately started off with them. They set out along a little, narrow, paved street, lined by ancient buildings or high walls.

“They do say h’as ’ow the Princess Elizabeth, afterwards Queen, was h’imprisoned in that room, up there,” stated the guide, pointing to a small window in a wall on their left. “By Queen Mary’s h’orders she was brought in through the Traitor’s Gate, there. That was a great disgrace, you know, Miss,” he said to Betty, “for h’all the State prisoners entered by there, and few of them h’ever again left the Tower.”

Before them some steps led down to a little paved court, and beyond, under a building, they saw the terrible Traitor’s Gate,—a low, gloomy arch, with great wooden doors. The water formerly came through the arch and up to the steps, at which the unfortunate prisoners were landed. As the Princess Elizabeth stepped from the boat, she cried, “Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before Thee, O God, I speak it!”

“Isn’t there a proverb, ‘A loyal heart may be landed at Traitor’s Gate’?” questioned Mrs. Pitt; and turning to the guide she added, “Wasn’t it right here where we are standing that Margaret Roper caught sight of her father, Sir Thomas More, after his trial?” As the guide nodded his assent, she went on, “You all remember Sir Thomas More, of course,—the great and noble man whom Henry VIII beheaded because he would not swear allegiance to the King as head of the Church in England. In those days, an ax was always carried in the boat with the prisoner, on his return to the Tower, after the trial. If the head of the ax was turned toward the victim, it was a sign that he was condemned. It was here, as I said, that Margaret Roper stood with the crowd, eagerly watching for the first glimpse of her beloved father; and when he came near and she saw the position of the ax, she broke away from the soldiers, and flung herself into her father’s arms. The two were so devoted that their story has always seemed an especially pathetic one to me. I suppose there were many like it, however.”

“Indeed there were, lady,” returned the guide, quite moved.

Just opposite Traitor’s Gate is the Bloody Tower, the most picturesque bit of the entire fortress. The old portcullis there is known as the only one in England which is still fit for use. At the side is an ancient and rusty iron ring, which attracted John’s attention so much that he asked about it.

“Boatmen coming through the Traitor’s Gate yonder, used to tie their boats to that ring,” the “beefeater” told them. “That shows you ’ow much farther h’up the water came in those days. H’in a room over the gateway of the Bloody Tower there, the Duke of Clarence, h’according to some, drowned himself in a butt of Malmsey wine; and in h’an adjoining room, they say that the little Princes were murdered by h’order of their uncle, the powerful Duke of Gloucester, who stole their right to the throne. Right ’ere, at the foot of these steps, is where ’e ’urriedly buried them, h’after ’is men ’ad smothered them.”

The children stood gazing at the little window over the gateway, their eyes big with horror. It did not seem as though such terrible things could have been done there in that little room, into which the sun now poured through the tiny window.

Every night at eleven o’clock, the warder on guard at the Bloody Tower challenges the Chief Warder, who passes bearing the keys. Each time this conversation follows:—

“Who goes there?”

“Keys.”

“Whose keys?”

“King Edward VII’s keys.”

“Advance King Edward VII’s keys, and all’s well.”

Not until then, may the keys in the Chief Warder’s care be allowed to pass on.

Some steps just beyond lead into the Wakefield Tower, where the “Crown Jewels” are now kept. The “beefeater” remained below, but Mrs. Pitt took the young people up into the little round room where the splendid crowns and other jewels are seen, behind iron bars. After examining minutely the objects on view, while leaning just as far as possible over the rail, John burst out with:

“Just look at those huge salt-cellars!” pointing to several very large gold ones. “I should say that the English must be about as fond of salt as they are of mustard, to have wanted those great things! Oh, I don’t care for these!” he added. “They are stupid, I think! Imagine being King Edward, and owning such elegant crowns, scepters, and things, and then letting them stay way down here at the Tower, where he can’t get at them! What’s the use of having them, I’d like to know! Oh, come on! I’ve seen enough of these!”

“Wait just a minute, John,” interrupted Betty. “See! here’s Queen Victoria’s crown, and in it is the ruby that belonged to the Black Prince, and which Henry V wore in his helmet at Agincourt! Just think!” with a sigh. “Now I’ll go.”

“Speaking of crowns,” observed Mrs. Pitt, in passing down the stairs, “have you ever heard about the large emerald which George III wore in his crown, at his coronation? During the ceremony, it fell out, and superstitious people regarded it as a bad omen. Their fears were realized when that sovereign lost something much dearer to him than any jewel: his American Colonies.”

The previously-mentioned White Tower stands in the center of all the other surrounding buildings. It is large and square, with turrets at the four corners,—an ideal old fortress. As they approached, the guide took out some keys and unlocked a door, starting down some steps into the darkness. “Oh, the dungeons!” gasped Betty, and she and Barbara shivered a little, as they followed.

Just at the foot they halted, and the guide showed them some round holes in the floor.

“’Ere’s where they fastened down the rack. This ’ere’s the Torture Chamber. You may think that being so near the entrance, the cries of the victims could be ’eard by the people outside, lady, but these walls are so thick that there was no possible chance of that. Ah, down in these parts is where we still see things, ladies!”

“Why, what do you mean?” whispered John, dreading and yet longing to hear.

Thus encouraged, their guide continued:—

“Once h’every month, it is my turn to watch down ’ere, during the night. Some of us don’t like to admit it, lady, but we h’all dread that! Many things which ’ave never been written down in ’istory, ’ave ’appened in these ’ere passages and cells! Ah, there are figures glide around ’ere in the dead o’ night, and many’s the times I’ve ’eard screams, way in the distance, as though somebody was being ’urt! Now, this way, please, and I’ll show you Guy Fawkes’s cell,—’im h’as was the originator of the Gunpowder Plot, and tried to blow up the ’ouses of Parliament.”

They felt their way along the uneven floors, and peered into the darkness of Guy Fawkes’s cell, which was called “Little Ease.”

“Just imagine having to stay long in there!” sighed Betty. “Not able to stand up, lie down, or even sit up straight! Did they make it that way on purpose, do you think?”

“They certainly did, Miss,” declared the guide. “They tried to make ’im confess ’o ’ad associated with ’im in the plot; but ’e wouldn’t, and they finally put ’im on the rack, poor man! A terrible thing was that rack!”

“Let’s come away now,” broke in Mrs. Pitt quickly. “I really think we have all had about enough of this, and there are more cheerful things to be seen above.”

So they threaded their way out to the entrance again, getting whiffs of damp, disagreeable air from several dark dungeons, and passing through a number of great apartments stacked with guns. It was a relief to gain the main part of the building, where other people were, and plenty of warmth and sunlight. Their spirits rose, and they laughed and joked while climbing the narrow, spiral stairs.

The large room in which they found themselves was filled with weapons also, and various relics of the old Tower. It was used as the great Banqueting-hall when the Tower was the Royal Palace, as well as the fortress, the State prison, the Mint, the Armory, and the Record Office. The apartment above this was the Council Chamber. They went up.

“It was here that Richard II gave up his crown to Henry of Bolingbroke who became Henry IV, by demand of the people,” said Mrs. Pitt. “Richard was a weak, cruel king, you remember, and was confined in a distant castle, where he was finally murdered. Suppose we examine some of this armor now. This suit here belonged to Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, the Earl of Leicester. Notice the initials R. D., which stand for his name, Robert Dudley. This here was made for Charles I when he was a boy; and that belonged to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; and this, to Henry VIII himself. Aren’t they interesting? Yes, what’s that you have found, Barbara?”

The two boys were absorbed in the armor for some time, but Barbara and Betty liked a figure on horseback, which represents Queen Elizabeth as she looked when she rode out in state. It is strangely realistic, for the figure is dressed in a gown of the period said to have belonged to that Queen.

“Do you suppose that jewels were sewn into the dress where those round holes are?” asked Betty, gently touching the faded velvet with one finger.

They all examined the dreadful instruments of torture, some of them taken from the Armada, and the ghastly headsman’s block and mask, and then they descended the winding stairs again and went into the little shadowy St. John’s Chapel, on the floor with the Banqueting-hall.

“I want you all to remember that this is called the ‘most perfect Norman chapel in England,’” began Mrs. Pitt. “Some day when you have learned more about architecture, that will mean a great deal to you. These heavy circular pillars and the horseshoe arches show the ancient Norman style. It’s a quaint place, isn’t it? Here Brackenbury, the Lieutenant of the Tower, was praying one evening when the order came to him to murder the two little Princes. In this chapel, the Duke of Northumberland, the aged father of Lady Jane Grey, heard Mass before he went out to execution. ‘Bloody Mary’ came here to attend service upon the death of her brother, Edward VI. Somewhere on the same floor of this tower, John Baliol, the Scotch King, was imprisoned and lived for some time in great state. There is (at any rate, there was) a secret passage between this chapel and the Royal Apartments. I have read so much about the dreadful conspirators who skulked about the Tower, and the fearful deeds that were done here, that I can almost see a man in armor, with drawn sword, lurking behind one of these pillars!”

Some soldiers in their gay uniforms were parading on Tower Green when they went out again, and the scene was a merry, bright one.

“How different from the days when the scaffold stood under those trees!” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, as they approached the fatal spot. “Here perished Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Katharine Howard, and Queen Elizabeth’s unfortunate favorite, the Earl of Essex. Most of the victims were beheaded just outside, on Tower Hill. Now, we’ll look into St. Peter’s Chapel.”

It is a gloomy, unattractive enough little chapel, but there are buried here many illustrious men and women, whose lives were unjustly taken by those in power. Here lie the queens who suffered at the Tower, and, strangely enough, their tombs are mostly unmarked. John Fisher, the ancient Bishop of Rochester, lies here, and Guildford Dudley, husband to Lady Jane Grey, the Earl of Arundel, Sir Thomas More, and many others whose names are forever famous.

Our party visited the little room in the Beauchamp Tower, which so many examine with intense interest. Many people were imprisoned there, and the walls are literally covered with signatures, verses, coats-of-arms, crests, and various devices cut into the stone by the captives. Perhaps the most famous is the simple word “JANE,” said to have been done by her husband, Guildford Dudley. A secret passage has been discovered extending around this chamber, and probably spies were stationed there to watch the prisoners and listen to what they said.

“That’s the Brick Tower,” said Mrs. Pitt, pointing to it with her umbrella, as she spoke. “There’s where Lady Jane Grey was imprisoned, and there Sir Walter Raleigh lived during his first stay at the Tower. It was when he was in the Beauchamp Tower, however, that he burnt part of his ‘History of the World,’ the work of many years. It happened in a curious way! Do you know the story? He was at his window one morning and witnessed a certain scene which took place in the court beneath. Later, he talked with a friend who had been a nearer spectator of this identical scene, and they disagreed entirely as to what passed. Raleigh was very peculiarly affected by this little incident. He reasoned that if he could be so much mistaken about something which had happened under his very eyes, how much more mistaken must he be about things which occurred centuries before he was born. The consequence was that he threw the second volume of his manuscript into the fire, and calmly watched it burn. Think of the loss to us! Poor Raleigh! He was finally beheaded, and I should think he would have welcomed it, after so many dreary years of imprisonment. He is buried in St. Margaret’s Church, beside Westminster Abbey, you know.”

“Was there a real palace in the Tower?” inquired Betty, while they retraced their steps under the Bloody Tower and back toward the entrance. “Isn’t there any of it remaining?”

“Yes, there was a palace here once, for royalty lived in the Tower through the reign of James I. No part of it now exists, however. It stood over beyond the White Tower, in a part which visitors are not now allowed to see.”

On a hill just outside the Tower, in the center of a large, barren square, is a little inclosed park with trees and shrubbery. Here stood the scaffold where almost all of the executions were held. The place is now green and fruitful, but it is said that on the site of the scaffold within the Tower, grass cannot be made to grow.

As they walked toward a station of the “Tube,” an underground railway, John suddenly heaved a great sigh of relief and exclaimed:

“Well, I tell you what! I’ve learned heaps, but I don’t want to hear anything more about executions for a few days! What do you all say?”