"Not I, indeed," answered Tidkins, abruptly.
Chichester had now descended into the subterranean passage.
"This is the cell," said the Resurrection Man; and, approaching one of the doors, he placed a key in the lock.
During the few seconds that intervened until the door was thrown open, Tomlinson experienced a perfect age of mental agony. He felt as if he were about to perpetrate some hideous crime—a murder of the blackest dye. The perspiration poured off his forehead: he trembled from head to foot; his brain felt oppressed; there was a weight upon the pit of his stomach; his eye-balls throbbed.
Yes—he was a very coward in guilt!
The door flew open.
The Resurrection Man entered first, and advanced into the middle of a small arched cell—a stone tomb, built to immure the living!
A decent bed, a table, a chair, a wash-hand-stand, and a lamp, which was lighted, together with a few other necessaries, composed the furniture of that dungeon.
And stretched upon the bed, with her clothes on, lay the victim of this cruel persecution.
The glare of the Resurrection Man's candle fell upon a pale, but not unpleasing countenance: the long chesnut hair spread, dishevelled, over the arm that supported the head.