Inside his silent cell, Holtspur had heard the clock striking the hour of twelve, in solemn lugubrious tones—too consonant with his thoughts.
It was the twelve of midnight.
“I wish it were twelve of to-morrow’s noon,” soliloquised he, when the tolling had ceased. “If I have correctly interpreted the conversation I overheard this morning, ere that hour I shall be far from this place. So—the Tower is my destination. After that—ay, what after that? Perhaps—the block? Why fear I to pronounce the word? I may as well look it boldly in the face: for I know that the vengeance of that vile woman—that has pursued me all through life, since she could not have my heart, will be satisfied with nothing less than my head. It is her hand I recognise in this—her hand that penned the postscript to that despatch; or, at all events, was it she who dictated it.
“I wish it were the hour to depart hence. There can be no dungeon in the Tower so terrible as this—on one side of the wall Hell, on the other Paradise. I can think only of Paradise, where Marion is present. She so dear to me—so near to me—almost breathing the same atmosphere; and yet oblivious of my existence! Perhaps—
“Ha! footsteps stirring outside? The sentry talking to some one! ’Tis the voice of a woman!
“One of the domestics of the mansion, I suppose, who has stolen forth to exchange the day’s gossip with the guard? ’Tis a late hour for the girl to be gadding; but perhaps ’tis the hour of her choice? I can envy this wench and her soldier sweetheart their easy opportunities. Perhaps equally to be envied is the free and easy fashion, with which they enter upon a love affair, and escape out of it? With them there is no such terrible contingency as a broken heart. To-morrow he may be gone; and the day after she will be as gay as ever!
“How different with a passion like mine! Absence can have no effect upon it. Not even the terrors of the Tower can bring it to a termination. It will end only under the axe of the executioner—if that is to be my fate.
“These gossips are getting nearer the door. Though they are talking in a low tone, I might hear what they say, by placing my ear to the keyhole. I have no inclination to make myself the depository of their coarse love secrets; but perhaps I may hear something of myself, or of her! That may make it worth my while to play eavesdropper.”
The prisoner rose from his seat; and succeeded in getting himself into an erect attitude. But all at once he sank back upon the bench; and only by adroitly balancing his body did he save himself from falling upon the floor.
“By the good Saint Vitus!” he exclaimed, rather amused at his misadventure, “I had forgotten that my feet were not free. After all, what I should hear might not be worth the effort. I’ll leave them to keep their secrets—whatever they be—to themselves.”