The Essential Works of William Harrison Ainsworth - William Harrison Ainsworth

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it may be added, he was right in his conjecture.

      The cell in which he was thrown was part of a series of such dreadful receptacles, contrived in the thickness of the ballium wall, and extending from the Beauchamp Tower to the Devilin Tower. They were appropriated to those prisoners who were doomed to confinement for life.

      Horrible recollections then flashed upon his mind of the dreadful sufferings he had heard that the miserable wretches immured in these dungeons underwent—how some were tortured—some destroyed by secret and expeditious means—others by the more lingering process of starvation. As the latter idea crossed him, he involuntarily stretched out his hand to ascertain whether any provisions had been left him; but he could find none.

      The blood froze in his veins as he thought of dying thus; his hair stiffened upon his head; and he was only prevented from crying out to make his lamentable case known to the occupants of any of the adjoining cells, by the conviction of its utter futility. But this feeling passed away, and was succeeded by calmer and more consolatory reflections. While in this frame of mind, Nature asserted her sway, and he dropped asleep.

      How long he remained thus, he knew not; but he was awakened by a loud and piercing scream. Raising himself, he listened intently. The scream was presently repeated in a tone so shrill and unearthly, that it filled him with apprehensions of a new kind. The outcry having been a third time raised, he was debating within himself whether he should in any way reply to it, when he thought he beheld a shadowy figure glide along the passage. It paused at a short distance from him. A glimmer of light fell upon the arch on the left, but the place where the figure stood was buried in darkness. After gazing for some time at the mysterious visitant, and passing his hand across his brow to assure himself that his eyesight did not deceive him, Cholmondeley summoned courage enough to address it. No answer was returned; but the figure, which had the semblance of a female, with the hands raised and clasped together as if in supplication or prayer, and with a hood drawn over the face, remained perfectly motionless. Suddenly, it glided forward, but with a step so noiseless and swift, that almost before the esquire was aware of the movement, it was at his side. He then felt a hand cold as marble placed upon his own, and upon grasping the fingers they appeared so thin and bony, that he thought he must have encountered a skeleton. Paralysed with fright, Cholmondeley shrunk back as far as he was able; but the figure pursued him, and shrieked in his ear—“My child, my child!—you have taken my child!”

      Convinced from the voice that he had a being of this world to deal with, the esquire seized her vestment, and resolved to detain her till he had ascertained who she was and what was the cause of her cries; but just as he had begun to question her, a distant footstep was heard, ands uttering a loud shriek, and crying—“He comes!—he comes!”—the female broke from him and disappeared.

      Fresh shrieks were presently heard in a more piteous tone than before, mixed with angry exclamations in a man’s voice, which Cholmondeley fancied sounded like that of Nightgall. A door was next shut with great violence; and all became silent.

      While he was musing on this strange occurrence, Cholmondeley heard footsteps advancing along the passage on the left, and in another moment Lawrence Nightgall stood before him.

      The jailer, who carried a lamp, eyed the captive for a few moments in silence, and with savage satisfaction.

      “It is to you, then, I owe my imprisonment, villain,” said Cholmondeley, regarding him sternly.

      “It is,” replied the jailer; “and you can readily conjecture, I doubt not, why I have thus dealt with you.”

      “I can,” resumed the esquire; “your jealousy prompted you to the deed. But you shall bitterly rue it.”

      “Bah!” exclaimed Nightgall. “You are wholly in my power. I am not, however, come to threaten, but to offer you freedom.”

      “On what terms?” demanded Cholmondeley.

      “On these,” replied the jailer, scowling—“that you swear to abandon Cicely.”

      “Never!” replied the esquire.

      “Then your fate is sealed,” rejoined Nightgall. “You shall never quit this spot.”

      “Think not to move me by any such idle threat,” returned Cholmondeley. “You dare not detain me.”

      “Who shall prevent me?” laughed the jailor, scornfully. “I, alone, possess the key of these dungeons. You are their sole occupant.”

      “That is false,” retorted the esquire. “There is another captive,—a miserable female,—whom I, myself, have seen.”

      “Has she been here?” cried Nightgall, with a look of disquietude.

      “Not many minutes since,” replied the other, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon him. “She came in search of her child. What have you done with it, villain?”

      Cholmondeley had no particular object in making the inquiry. But he was astonished at the effect produced by it on the jailer, who started and endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling his cap over his brows.

      “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.”

      “Who is she?” demanded the esquire.

      “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.

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