On the following day, Tresham was seized with a sudden illness, and making known his symptoms to Ipgreve, the chirurgeon who attended the prison was sent for, and on seeing him, pronounced him dangerously ill, though he was at a loss to explain the nature of his disorder. Every hour the sick man grew worse, and he was torn with racking pains. Connecting his sudden seizure with the visit of Lord Mounteagle, an idea of the truth flashed upon him, and he mentioned his suspicions to the chirurgeon, charging Jasper Ipgreve with being accessory to the deed. The jailer stoutly denied the accusation, and charged the prisoner in his turn with making a malicious statement to bring him into discredit.
“I will soon test the truth of his assertion,” observed the chirurgeon, taking a small flat piece of the purest gold from his doublet. “Place this in your mouth.”
Tresham obeyed, and Ipgreve watched the experiment with gloomy curiosity.
“You are a dead man,” said the chirurgeon to Tresham, as he drew forth the piece of gold, and perceived that it was slightly tarnished. “Poison has been administered to you.”
“Is there no remedy—no counter-poison?” demanded Tresham, eagerly.
The chirurgeon shook his head.
“Then let the lieutenant be summoned,” said Tresham; “I have an important confession to make to him. I charge this man,” pointing to the jailer, “with giving poisoned wine to me. Do you hear what I say to you?”
“I do,” replied the chirurgeon.
“But he will never reveal it,” said Ipgreve, with great unconcern. “I have a warrant from the Earl of Salisbury for what I have done.”
“What!” cried Tresham, “can murder be committed here with impunity?”