“That you shall never do while a hand’s breadth of steel will rid me of you, or myself of the world. Escape is too easy.”
“Not from an Oxford dungeon, my dear. This mediaeval town furnishes us with dark pits in which there is no fire, and consequently they have a cooling effect on the hottest temperament. These are pits of which I am the fiend. My dear, you underrate my power, or overrate my patience.”
“There are English gentlemen in Oxford. On what plea could you induce them to think that an English lady should be placed in a dungeon?”
“Yes, there are English gentlemen here, and some French gentlemen as well. They are unanimous in their detestation of a spy, male or female. Your man we shall hang out of hand, and there will be little difficulty about the pleasing task. I shall myself plead that your life be spared, and they will agree. Everything will be done with that beautiful legality which the English so much admire, but even from this moment you are entirely in my power, and a sensible woman should not need so much argument to convince her that the situation is hopeless.”
“Armstrong is no spy.”
“He may have difficulty in proving he is not. I am glad to note that you admit by inference that you are a spy.”
“I can prove he is not a spy.”
“Your evidence would be tainted. You are an accomplice. Besides, you could not clear him without condemning yourself.”
“Such will I gladly do. I glory in that I would sacrifice myself with joy to save William Armstrong, the awkward Scot, as you called him. What would you give to hear me say this of you?”
“Much, my dear, much. Oh, I delight in you! You know how to sting without using your poniard. But I am not of a jealous nature, and love conquest for its own sake. I have told you I care nothing for the Scot, and you might easily have had him journey for the North again if you had not been so impetuous. Now I shall hang him, merely as the first step in breaking the stubborn pride which adds such zest to your overcoming.”