A turnkey, who was one of the party that had ushered Peveril into the presence of this Cerberus, now conveyed him out in silence; and, under his guidance, the prisoner was carried through a second labyrinth of passages with cells opening on each side, to that which was destined for his reception.
On the road through this sad region, the turnkey more than once ejaculated, “Why, the gentleman must be stark-mad! Could have had the best crown cell to himself for less than half the garnish, and must pay double to pig in with Sir Geoffrey! Ha, ha!—Is Sir Geoffrey akin to you, if any one may make free to ask?”
“I am his son,” answered Peveril sternly, in hopes to impose some curb on the fellow’s impertinence; but the man only laughed louder than before.
“His son!—Why, that’s best of all—Why, you are a strapping youth—five feet ten, if you be an inch—and Sir Geoffrey’s son!—Ha, ha, ha!”
“Truce with your impertinence,” said Julian. “My situation gives you no title to insult me!”
“No more I do,” said the turnkey, smothering his mirth at the recollection, perhaps, that the prisoner’s purse was not exhausted. “I only laughed because you said you were Sir Geoffrey’s son. But no matter—‘tis a wise child that knows his own father. And here is Sir Geoffrey’s cell; so you and he may settle the fatherhood between you.”
So saying, he ushered his prisoner into a cell, or rather a strong room of the better order, in which there were four chairs, a truckle-bed, and one or two other articles of furniture.
Julian looked eagerly around for his father; but to his surprise the room appeared totally empty. He turned with anger on the turnkey, and charged him with misleading him; but the fellow answered, “No, no, master; I have kept faith with you. Your father, if you call him so, is only tappiced in some corner. A small hole will hide him; but I’ll rouse him out presently for you.—Here, hoicks!—Turn out, Sir Geoffrey!—Here is—Ha, ha, ha!—your son—or your wife’s son—for I think you have but little share in him—come to wait on you.”
Peveril knew not how to resent the man’s insolence; and indeed his anxiety, and apprehension of some strange mistake, mingled with, and in some degree neutralised his anger. He looked again and again, around and around the room; until at length he became aware of something rolled up in a dark corner, which rather resembled a small bundle of crimson cloth than any living creature. At the vociferation of the turnkey, however, the object seemed to acquire life and motion, uncoiled itself in some degree, and, after an effort or two, gained an erect posture; still covered from top to toe with the crimson drapery in which it was at first wrapped. Julian, at the first glance, imagined from the size that he saw a child of five years old; but a shrill and peculiar tone of voice soon assured him of his mistake.
“Warder,” said this unearthly sound, “what is the meaning of this disturbance? Have you more insults to heap on the head of one who hath ever been the butt of fortune’s malice? But I have a soul that can wrestle with all my misfortunes; it is as large as any of your bodies.”