“Peace!” cried Nightgall, “I will do you no harm. Your retreat has been discovered. You must go with me to the tower leading to the Iron Gate.”
“I will never go thither of my accord,” replied Cicely. “Release me, villain. I will die sooner than become your bride.”
“We shall see that,” growled the jailer. “Another month’s captivity will make you alter your tone. You shall never be set free, unless you consent to be mine.”
“Then I shall die a prisoner like your other victims,” cried Cicely.
“Who told you I had other victims?” cried Nightgall, moodily.
“No matter who told me. I have heard Cuthbert Cholmondeley, whom I love as much as I hate you, speak of one—Alexia, I think she was named.”
“No more of this,” cried Nightgall, fiercely, “come along, or—”
“Never!” shrieked Cicely—“I will not go. You will murder me,”—And she filled the chamber with her screams.
“Confusion!” cried Nightgall, “we shall be heard. Come along, I say.”