“No,” replied Viviana; “as I do not desire to live, I will use no effort to sustain myself. They may kill me if they please.”
“Misfortune has turned her brain,” muttered the old woman. “I must take care and secure my dues. Well, madam, if you will not eat the supper I have provided, it cannot be helped. I must find some one who will. You must pay for it all the same. My husband, Jasper Ipgreve, will be present at your interrogation, and I am sure, for my sake, he will use you as lightly as he can. Come, Ruth, you must not remain here longer.”
“Oh, let her stay with me,” implored Viviana. “I will make it well worth your while to grant me the indulgence.”
“What will you give?” cried the old woman, eagerly. “But no—no—I dare not leave her. The lieutenant may visit you, and find her, and then I should lose my place. Come along, Ruth. She shall attend you after the interrogation, madam. I shall be there myself.”
“Farewell, madam,” sobbed Ruth, who was almost drowned in tears. “Heaven grant you constancy to endure your trial!”
“Be ruled by me,” said the old woman. “Speak out, and secure your own safety.”
She would have continued in the same strain, but Ruth dragged her away. And casting a commiserating glance at Viviana, she closed the door.
The dreadful interval between their departure and midnight was passed by Viviana in fervent prayer. As she heard through the barred embrasure of her dungeon the deep strokes of the clock toll out the hour of twelve, the door opened, and a tall, gaunt personage, habited in a suit of rusty black, and with a large bunch of keys at his girdle, entered the cell.
“You are Jasper Ipgreve?” said Viviana, rising.
“Right,” replied the jailer. “I am come to take you before the lieutenant and the council. Are you ready?”