“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.”
“Heed him not,” interposed Nightgall, grasping her arm, and preventing her from approaching her lover; “but attend to me. You see this warrant,” he added, producing a parchment. “It is from the council, and directs that the prisoner’s execution shall take place in such manner as may best consist with despatch and secrecy. If I deliver it to Mauger, the headsman, it will be promptly obeyed. And I shall deliver it, unless you promise compliance.”
“The villain deceives you, dear Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, in a voice of anguish. “The council have not the power of life and death. They cannot—dare not—order my execution without form or trial.”
“The council will answer for their actions themselves,” rejoined Nightgall, carelessly. “Their warrant will bear me and my comrades harmless. Mauger will not hesitate to act upon it. What is your determination, Cicely?”
“Free him,” she replied.
“Recall your words, sweet Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, throwing himself at her feet, “if you have any love for me. You doom me to worse than death by this submission.”
“Cholmondeley,” she replied in a mournful voice, “my resolution is taken, and even you cannot induce me to change it. The opening of our love has been blighted. My heart has been crushed, almost before it knew for whom it beat. It matters not now what becomes of me. If my life could preserve yours, or restore you to freedom, I would freely yield it. But as nothing will suffice except my hand, I give that. Think of me no more, or think of me only as another’s.”
“That thought were madness!” groaned Cholmondeley.
“Master Lawrence Nightgall,” continued Cicely, “you say you can conduct the prisoner beyond the walls of the Tower. Bring me back some token that you have done so, and I am yours.”
“Willingly,” replied the jailer.
“Retire then for a moment, while I arrange with him what the token shall be.”
Nightgall hesitated.
“Refuse, and I retract my promise,” she added.
And the jailer, with a suspicious look, reluctantly left the cell.
“Cicely, my beloved,” cried Cholmondeley, clasping her in his arms, “why—why have you done this?”
“To preserve you,” she replied, hurriedly. “Once out of this dungeon, I can bring assistance to liberate you.”
“Indeed!” ejaculated Nightgall, who, having placed his ear to the wall, lost not a syllable of their discourse.
“It will be unavailing,” replied Cholmondeley. “No one will venture to oppose an order of the council. You must make known my case to Lord Guilford Dudley. Take this ring. Explain all to him, and I may yet be saved. Do you hear me, Cicely?”
“I do,” she replied.
“And I,” added Nightgall.
“In case you fail,” continued the esquire, “the token of my escape shall be”—and placing his lips close to her ear, he spoke a few words in so low a tone, that they escaped the jailer. “Till you receive that token treat Nightgall as before.”
“Doubt it not,” she answered.
“I am content,” said the esquire.
“I see through the design,” muttered the jailer, “and will defeat it. Have you done?” he added, aloud.
“A moment,” replied Cholmondeley, again pressing the damsel to his bosom, “I would sooner part with my life’s blood than resign you.”
“I must go,” she cried, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Now, Master Nightgall, I am ready to attend you.”
“In an hour I shall return and release you,” said the jailer, addressing the prisoner. “Your hand, Cicely.”
“I will go alone,” she replied, shrinking from him with a look of abhorrence.