'As if I should tell the secrets of the Marquis to you!' she said quickly.
'Ah! so you are not going to tell--for of course you know?' and he laughed softly.
'English girls don't tell tales,' said Etta.
'Well, we'll see. Come, Nat, where's the rope? A little pressure on the wrists acts to the tongue like oil to rusty hinges.'
Etta saw the rope, and some of her courage forsook her. She tried to run past Nat, but with one stride he caught her, and, twisting the rope round both her wrists in a peculiar fashion, he began pulling the noose tight, then tighter. Etta shut her eyes and thought of Carlo and of Harry. She knew the Marquis had hidden some of the gold in an old well, under the flags of the inner courtyard, but she did not mean to tell. God helping her, she would not be a traitor.
'Now,' said Simon, 'draw it tight, Nat, and see if that won't make her speak. Where is the gold, girl? Quick, and you shall be released. One, two--where? Pull tighter, Nat.'
Etta, in spite of herself, uttered a scream, shrill and piercing, which made Simon laugh.
'I thought the bird would pipe to some tune. Come, Nat, a little tighter. Where is the gold?'
'It is not mine: how can I tell? I won't! no, I won't! It's Carlo's money if his father is dead. Oh!' She struggled to get away, but this only increased her agony.
'One, two, three; it will hurt more yet if you don't speak.'