"No, I will not accept your last condition," I said. The words escaped me almost without the consent of my own will, for I felt I dared not sneak out of the house in such a way. After all, I was a Trevanion, and came of an honourable race. My fathers had fought many battles for women in the past. Perhaps some of their spirit came to me as I spoke.
"You will not!" he cried like one amazed.
"No!" I cried, "I will not. Look you, I have seen that maid this very night. If you were a man such as a woman could love, if the maid did not loathe you, I would not have given either of you a second thought. But even although it may not be possible for me to lift a finger on her behalf, I will not bind myself by a promise not to help her. Why, man,"—and my anger got the better of me,—"it were sending a maid to hell to make her the wife of such as you!"
I heard Benet Killigrew laugh. "Good!" he cried; "the fellow's a man!" But Otho was mad with rage. He gave an angry cry, and then leaped on me; but I threw him from me. I looked around for my sword; but before I could reach it, the two men I had seen acting as sentinels rushed into the room, and I was overpowered.
Still I made a fair fight. Twice did I throw the men from me, and I know that they carried bruises for many a day. But one unarmed man against three is weary work, and at length I was dragged from the room. One thing I could not help noticing, however: Benet took no part in the business. He simply held the candle and looked on, occasionally uttering cries of joy when I seemed to be getting the best of the battle.
When I was left alone in a room at the basement of the castle, I at first upbraided myself because of my foolishness. I had acted the part of a madman. And yet, on reconsidering the matter, I did not see what I could have done other than what I did. True, my prison walls might hinder me, but my promise did not. It might be possible to escape in spite of the bolts of a jailer—my people had done this often; but none had ever tried to escape from their promises. Then I thought of my promise to Peter Trevisa. Well, I knew not at the time I undertook his work what I knew when I lay imprisoned, or I would not have made it. Besides, I could pay the forfeit. The bargain was honourably made. If I failed to bring the maid to him within a certain time, I had lost Trevanion. My debt of honour would be paid.
On reflection, therefore, though I was ill pleased at being confined in that dark cell, I felt strangely light-hearted. I was no longer acting a lie. I should no longer skulk under the name of Penryn. I did not believe the Killigrews would murder me, neither would they starve me. I was not a weakling, and I could look for means of escape. If I could succeed in gaining my freedom, I vowed I would take away the maid Nancy Molesworth, if for no other reason than to spite the Killigrews.
Presently morning came, and I was able to see more plainly where I was, and what my prison was like. The place was really a cellar, and but little light found its way there. True, there was a window; but it was very narrow, revealing a small aperture, the sides of which were composed of strong masonry. Over the aperture was a heavy iron grating, which grating was on a level with the courtyard. The window, too, was securely guarded with heavy iron bars. The door was strongly made of oak, and iron studded. The sight of these things made my heart heavy; escape seemed impossible.
The hours dragged heavily on, and I grew weary of waiting. But presently I heard footsteps outside. The two knaves who had obeyed the bidding of Otho Killigrew entered, one bearing food and the other my clothes. Neither spoke, although the one I had known as Sam Daddo looked less surly than the other. I remembered that he was a lover of Mistress Nancy Molesworth's serving-maid, and tried to think how I could turn this fact to account. They did not stay, but presently returned, bringing a small, roughly made couch.
"Evidently," I thought, "it is intended that I shall be kept a prisoner for some time."