A wild shriek from Margaret, and a smothered groan from Holgrave, interrupted the abbot. The judge turned silently away, and left the dungeon: and, as there was now no prisoner to confine, the door was left open after him.
CHAPTER VI.
On the evening succeeding the day of Edith's decease, Black Jack's associates were, as usual, squandering away their ill-got money at the Mitre. A ribald song was just concluded, when a loud knock caught the attention of the foreman: the door was opened, and the galleyman entered. His countenance looked pale and haggard, and without speaking, he threw himself in a chair.
"What ails you, man?" inquired Black Jack—"you look the worse for your long fast—here, drink," handing him a full pitcher.
"I want no drink," said the galleyman, impatiently, pushing away the vessel—"but stay, 't will do me no harm."
He then snatched the pitcher and drank a full quart ere he removed it from his lips.
"Master Oakley," said he, "you played me false in this game. Do ye think if I hadn't been fool enough to believe what you and that master sheriff told me, I would have given in till poor Edith Holgrave had slipt her cable. Did you not swear to me," added he fiercely, "that the law could not touch her?"
"True, O king; and though the judge did a queer thing in her case, yet the woman died like a Christian in her bed after all."
"Is she buried like a Christian?" passionately interrogated the stranger. "No," he continued, in a quieter tone, "she was buried last night in the high road without kyste or shroud, or prayer, just as one would throw a dead dog overboard: but there is no use talking now—this is not what I came for. I came to ask if ye will give me a hand to get her out again."