“Then you have delivered yourself to certain death, young man,” rejoined the officer. “What madness has brought you hither? The queen will show you no mercy, and blood enough will-flow upon the scaffold without yours being added to the stream.”
“I desire only to die with my master,” replied Cholmondeley.
“Where is Lord Guilford Dudley?” demanded the muffled’ female, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
“Confined in one of the secret dungeons—but I may not answer you further, madam,” replied the officer.
“Are his wounds dangerous?” she continued, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.
“They are not mortal, madam,” he answered. “He will live long enough to expiate his offences on the scaffold.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed with difficulty, repressing a scream.
“No more of this—if you are a man,” cried Cholmondeley, fiercely. “You know not whom you address.” *
“I partly guess.” replied the officer, with a compassionate look. “I respect your sorrows, noble lady—but oh! why—why are you here? I would willingly serve you—nay, save you—but it is out of my power.”
“My presence here must show you, sir, that I have no wish to avoid the punishment I have incurred,” she replied. “I am come to submit myself to the queen. But if you would serve me—serve me without danger to yourself, or departure from your duty—you will convey this letter without delay to her highness’s own hand.”