On the next day, when evening approached, Varney summoned Foster to the execution of their plan.  Tider and Foster’s old man-servant were sent on a feigned errand down to the village, and Anthony himself, as if anxious to see that the Countess suffered no want of accommodation, visited her place of confinement.  He was so much staggered at the mildness and patience with which she seemed to endure her confinement, that he could not help earnestly recommending to her not to cross the threshold of her room on any account whatever, until Lord Leicester should come, “which,” he added, “I trust in God, will be very soon.”  Amy patiently promised that she would resign herself to her fate, and Foster returned to his hardened companion with his conscience half-eased of the perilous load that weighed on it.  “I have warned her,” he said; “surely in vain is the snare set in the sight of any bird!”

He left, therefore, the Countess’s door unsecured on the outside, and, under the eye of Varney, withdrew the supports which sustained the falling trap, which, therefore, kept its level position merely by a slight adhesion.  They withdrew to wait the issue on the ground-floor adjoining; but they waited long in vain.  At length Varney, after walking long to and fro, with his face muffled in his cloak, threw it suddenly back and exclaimed, “Surely never was a woman fool enough to neglect so fair an opportunity of escape!”

“Perhaps she is resolved,” said Foster, “to await her husband’s return.”

“True!—­most true!” said Varney, rushing out; “I had not thought of that before.”

In less than two minutes, Foster, who remained behind, heard the tread of a horse in the courtyard, and then a whistle similar to that which was the Earl’s usual signal.  The instant after the door of the Countess’s chamber opened, and in the same moment the trap-door gave way.  There was a rushing sound—­a heavy fall—­a faint groan—­and all was over.

At the same instant, Varney called in at the window, in an accent and tone which was an indescribable mixture betwixt horror and raillery, “Is the bird caught?—­is the deed done?”

“O God, forgive us!” replied Anthony Foster.

“Why, thou fool,” said Varney, “thy toil is ended, and thy reward secure.  Look down into the vault—­what seest thou?”

“I see only a heap of white clothes, like a snowdrift,” said Foster.  “O God, she moves her arm!”

“Hurl something down on her—­thy gold chest, Tony—­it is an heavy one.”

“Varney, thou art an incarnate fiend!” replied Foster.

“There needs nothing more—­she is gone!”

“So pass our troubles,” said Varney, entering the room; “I dreamed not I could have mimicked the Earl’s call so well.”

“Oh, if there be judgment in heaven, thou hast deserved it,” said Foster, “and wilt meet it!  Thou hast destroyed her by means of her best affections—­it is a seething of the kid in the mother’s milk!”