“The rack will wrest nothing from me,” said Cholmondeley, firmly.
Brydges immediately sat down at a table, and writing out a list of questions to be put to the prisoner, added an order for the torture, and delivered it to Nightgall.
Without giving Cholmondeley time to reflect upon his imprudence, the jailor hurried him away, and he did not pause till he came to the head of the stairs leading to the torture-chamber. On reaching the steps, Nightgall descended first, but though he opened the door with great caution, a glare of lurid light burst forth, and a dismal groan smote the ears of the listener. It was followed by a creaking noise, the meaning of which the esquire too well divined.
Some little time elapsed before the door was again opened, and the voice of Nightgall was heard from below calling to his attendants to bring down the prisoner. The first object that caught Cholmondeley’s gaze on entering the fatal chamber, was a figure, covered from head to foot in a blood-coloured cloth. The sufferer, whoever he was, had just been released from the torture, as two assistants were supporting him, while Wolfytt was arranging the ropes on the rack. Sorrocold, also, who held a small cup filled with some pungent-smelling liquid, and a sprinkling-brush in his hand, was directing the assistants.
Horror-stricken at the sight, and filled with the conviction from the mystery observed, and the stature of the veiled person, that it was Lord Guilford Dudley, Cholmondeley uttered his name in a tone of piercing anguish. At the cry, the figure was greatly agitated—the arms struggled—and it was evident that an effort was made to speak. But only an inarticulate sound could be heard. The attendants looked disconcerted, and Nightgall stamping his foot angrily, ordered them to take their charge away. But Cholmondeley perceiving their intention, broke from those about him, and throwing himself at the feet of him whom he supposed to be Dudley, cried—“My dear, dear lord, it is I, your faithful esquire, Cuthbert Cholmondeley. Make some sign, if I am right in supposing it to be you.”
The figure struggled violently, and shaking off the officials, raised the cloth, and disclosed the countenance of the unfortunate nobleman—but oil! how changed since Cholmondeley had seen him last—how ghastly, how distorted, how death-like, were his features!
“You here!” cried Dudley. “Where is Jane? Has she fled? Has she escaped?”
“She has surrendered herself,” replied Cholmondeley, “in the hope of obtaining your pardon.’”
“False hope!—delusive expectation!” exclaimed Dudley, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “She will share my fate. I could have died happy—could have defied these engines, if she had escaped—but now!—”
“Away with him!” interposed Nightgall. “Throw the cloth over his head.”