“Hush—not so loud, or you will disturb your attendants, and some of them may do what I have failed to execute. Spare me, I say, and I will reveal that which were worth more than my life; but call not—speak not aloud, I warn you!”
The Tribune felt his heart stand still: in that lonely place, afar from his idolizing people—his devoted guards—with but loathing barons, or, it might be, faithless menials, within call, might not the baffled murtherer give a wholesome warning?—and those words and that doubt seemed suddenly to reverse their respective positions, and leave the conqueror still in the assassin’s power.
“Thou thinkest to deceive me,” said he, but in a voice whispered and uncertain, which shewed the ruffian the advantage he had gained: “thou wouldst that I might release thee without summoning my attendants, that thou mightst a second time attempt my life.”
“Thou hast disabled my right arm, and disarmed me of my only weapon.”
“How camest thou hither?”
“By connivance.”
“Whence this attempt?”
“The dictation of others.”
“If I pardon thee—”
“Thou shalt know all!”