“Indeed!” cried Trusbut, in dismay. “I—I—”
“Yes—yes—my husband understands all that,” interposed Dame Potentia; “he will be answerable for him—and so will I.”
“You will understand still further,” proceeded Nightgall, with a smile of triumph, “that he is not to stir forth except for one hour at mid-day, and then that his walks are to be restricted to the green.”
While this was passing, Og observed in a whisper to Xit—“If I were possessed of that bunch of keys at Nightgall’s girdle, I could soon find Cicely.”
“Indeed!” said Xit. “Then you shall soon have them.” And the next minute he disappeared under the table.
“You have a warrant for what you do, I suppose?” demanded Og, desirous of attracting the jailor’s attention.
“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, taking a parchment from his vest. He then deliberately seated himself, and producing an ink-horn and pen, wrote Peter Trusbut’s name upon it.
“Master Pantler,” he continued, delivering it to him, “I have addressed it to you. Once more I tell you, you will be responsible for the prisoner. And with this I take my leave.”
“Not so fast, villain,” said Cholmondeley, seizing his arm with a firm grasp,—“where is Cicely?”
“You will never behold her more,” replied Nightgall. “What have you done with the captive Alexia?” pursued the esquire, bitterly.