“Save me!—save me from him!” she shrieked; “he will kill me.”
“Pshaw!” cried the jailor. “Come with me quietly, Alexia, and you shall have a warmer cell, and better food.”
“I will not go,” she replied. “I will not answer to that name. Give me my rightful title and I will follow you.”
“What is your title?” asked Cholmondeley, eagerly.
“Beware!” interposed Nightgall, raising his hand menacingly. “Beware!”
“Heed him not!” cried Cholmondeley; “he shall not harm you. Tell me how you are called?”
“I have forgotten,” replied the terrified woman, evasively. “I had another name once. But I am called Alexia now.”
“What has become of your child?” asked Cholmondeley.
“My child!” she echoed, with a frightful scream. “I have lost her in these dungeons. I sometimes see her before me running and clapping her little hands. Ah! there she is—coming towards us. She has long fair hair—light blue eyes—blue as the skies I shall never behold again. Do you not see her?”
“No,” replied Cholmondeley, trembling. “How is she named?”
“She died unbaptised,” replied the female. “But I meant to call her Angela. Ah! see! she answers to the name—she approaches. Angela! my child!—my child!” And the miserable creature extended her arms, and seemed to clasp a phantom to her bosom.
“Alexia!” roared the jailor, fiercely, “follow me, or I will have you scourged by the tormentor.”
“He dare not—he will not,”—cried Cholmondeley, to whom the wretched woman clung convulsively. “Do not go with him.”
“Alexia,” reiterated the jailor, in a tone of increased fury.
“I must go,” she cried, breaking from the esquire, “or he will kill me.” And with a noiseless step she glided after Nightgall.
Cholmondeley listened intently, and as upon a former occasion, heard stifled groans succeeded by the clangour of a closing door, and then all was hushed. The jailor returned no more that night. When he appeared again, it was with a moodier aspect than ever. He set down the provisions, and instantly departed.
While meditating upon various means of escape, an idea at length occurred to the young esquire upon which he resolved to act. He determined to feign death. Accordingly, though half famished, he left his provisions untouched; and when Nightgall next visited the cell, he found him stretched on the ground, apparently lifeless. Uttering a savage laugh, the jailor held the light over the supposed corpse, and exclaimed, “At last I am fairly rid of him. Cicely will now be mine. I will fling him into the burial-vault near the moat. But first to unfasten this chain.”