“She is a maniac,” he said, at length, in a hoarse voice.
“If it be so,” rejoined the esquire, severely; “she has been driven out of her senses by your barbarous usage. I more than suspect you have murdered her child.”
“Entertain what suspicions you please,” replied Nightgall, evidently relieved by the surmise. “I am not accountable for the ravings of a distracted woman.”
“The names of those confined within these cells are never divulged,’” returned the jailer. “She has been a prisoner of state for nineteen years.”
“And during that term her child was born—ha?” pursued Cholmondeley.
“I will answer no further questions,” replied Nightgall, doggedly. “One word before I depart. I am not your only enemy. You have others more powerful, and equally implacable. You have incurred the displeasure of the Privy Council, and I have a warrant, under the hands of its chief members, for your execution. I am now about to summon the headsman for the task.”
“Then your offer to liberate me was mere mockery,” observed the esquire.
“Not so,” replied the other; “and I again repeat it. Swear to abandon Cicely, and to maintain profound silence as to what you have just seen, and I will convey you by a secret passage underneath the Tower moat to a place of security, where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies, and will take the risk of your escape upon myself. Do you agree to this?”
“No,” replied Cholmondeley, firmly. “I distrust your statement, and defy your malice.”
“Obstinate fool!” growled the jailer. “Prepare to meet your fate in an hour.”
“Whenever it comes it will find me prepared,” rejoined the esquire.
Nightgall glared at him fiercely for a moment from beneath his shaggy brows. He then strode sullenly away. But his departure was prevented by Cicely, who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the dungeon.
“You here!” he exclaimed recoiling, and trembling as if an apparition had crossed his path. “How have you obtained admittance?”,
“It matters not,” she answered. “I am come to purchase your prisoner’s freedom.”
“You know the terms?” rejoined the jailer, eagerly.
“I do,” she replied; “and will comply with them when you have fulfilled your share of the compact.”
“Cicely!” cried Cholmondeley, who had been to the full as much astonished at her unexpected appearance as the jailer. “Cicely!” he cried, starting to his feet, and extending his hands towards her. “Do not consent to his proposal. Do not sacrifice yourself for me. I would die a thousand deaths rather than you should be his.”