He had a fancy that the door of the dungeon was hammered open, that a glare of torchlight illuminated the place, that voices arose, that forms passed before him.
"He is in despair," said one voice; and another answered: "He well may be so, for on the third morning he dies."
And then something like a laugh echoed through the cell.
"I will leave the food for him," said a voice again. "He will wake and be glad of it."
"Pity that so comely a youth should have followed the lawless career of a robber. In his King's service he might now have been a knight, and they say of him that he comes of noble blood."
"That is why our good lady pleads so strongly for his life."
"But she pleads in vain," said the other voice. "Sir Dacre's purpose is fixed. Noble or ignoble, this robber leader shall die; and the Border will be quiet after it. I will leave the bread and water."
And there was a drawing and hammering of bolts, and the clanking of chains, and then silence. And the captive awoke as from a dream, and saw the bread and water on the cold floor, near where he lay. The bitterness of his captivity was coming.
"When purposed vengeance I forego, Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe; And when an insult I forgive, Then brand me as a slave, and live." --_Rokeby._
On the following forenoon the captive outlaw was brought up from his cell to be confronted with De Ermstein, in the great hall of the castle. When the myrmidons intimated this to Somervil all his dejection and helplessness left him; he scorned that, in this his trying hour, an enemy should behold him cast down by misfortune, or in despair at the apprehension of a speedy death. Summoning all his daring courage, he became indifferent to whatever fate might await him; and he followed his keepers with a firm step and a flashing eye.
In an antique chair, set upon the _dais_ or elevation at the upper end of the spacious hall, sat the stern knight of Warkcliff, attended by an imposing array of armed retainers. The deepest stillness prevailed when the prisoner appeared and was led up to the foot of the _dais_. Those who anticipated exultation at the sight of his misery were greatly deceived; they were startled on beholding his fearless mien and deportment. His face was calm but stern; and his eye met that of De Ermstein, but never quailed. He could not have displayed more bravery had he then stood upon the battlements of Hunterspath, with all his wild band around him. Not all the power of De Ermstein--not all the horrors of approaching death--could daunt him in a moment when faint-heartedness would have been deep disgrace.