"Bribe not, gal! and think not Bill will strike colours to gold—he has more than he wants, keep your ring—and here we are—go in there, and try not to corrupt my dochter—or gorramighty yer shall swing for it."
With these words he pushed Ellen into a large room, and shut the door.
Baffled a third time, Ellen gave herself up for lost—she staggered into the room, and threw herself on the first chair, and again gave way to hopeless grief.
"Madam," said a soft voice, "do not distress yourself; bear up, things are not so bad as they appear."
Ellen looked up to see the speaker! By her side stood a fair Spanish beauty, with braided hair, and large lustrous eyes. Ellen was not totally untinctured with some of the superstitions of her country, and for a moment she fancied she was an angel sent from heaven; her beauty—the strange situation she was in—the horrid remembrances of her arrest and drive—all worked on her mind, and she fancied it must be a vision, and not reality; but angels do not weep—and a tear stood in the young beauty's eye; she thought she knew the voice too—had heard it before—she was in a trance, surely—she would wake, and find it all a creation of her brain?
The room was hung with tapestry, which bent in and out with each gust of the wind—it was handsomely, but anciently furnished—everything was of the olden date. The room had two narrow windows—a huge old fashioned fireplace—one door only; opposite the windows was a large wardrobe, of which part formed a bookcase. In the far corner of the room were two beds with curtains of murrey-coloured silks, on which were trimmings, once bright, but now tarnished; several old pictures, hung on the walls, seemed lifelike in the half-gloom, half-glimmer of a solitary lamp on the large inlaid table in the centre of the room. These thoughts, suggested by the appearance of this fair lady in the ancient looking room, took Ellen's mind far shorter time to think of, than it has the writer to write them. She was awaked from her reverie by the soft voice again, "Madam—weep not—distress not yourself so."
"Have pity on me—oh! you have a tender, kind heart—you must have; a face so fair is the mirror of a good heart."
"Hush, lady—my father is at the door—these walls have ears—speak not so loud—and, moreover, do not ask for what I cannot grant. I will try and make you happy in your confinement,—I can do no more; and, lady, listen, your harsh or kind captivity depends entirely on yourself; if you submit without trying to escape, everything that can make you happy will be done for you; if you try either by bribe or subtlety to escape, you will only find harsher gaolers than I am."
"I will trust you then—happy I cannot be, but nothing will harm me whilst you are here. But, oh! at least tell me why I am confined here; this is a free country, and without law the meanest subject of his Majesty cannot be imprisoned."
"Alas, lady! I do not even know your name—far less do I know why you are here—I am your guardian only."