“You will utterly destroy me, if you yield,” groaned Cholmondeley.
“Once wedded to me,” urged Nightgall, “you shall set him free yourself.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Death were better than that. I cannot consent. Cholmondelcy, you must die.”
“You bid me live,” returned the esquire.
“You have signed his death-warrant!” cried Nightgall, seizing her hand. “Come along.”
“I will die here,” shrieked Cicely, struggling.
“Villain!” cried Cholmondeloy, “your cruelty will turn her brain, as it did that of her mother Alexia.”
“How do you know Alexia was her mother?” demanded Nightgall, starting, and relinquishing his grasp of Cicely.
“I am sure of it,” replied Cholmondeley. “And, what is more, I am acquainted with the rightful name and title of your victim. She was the wife of Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who was attainted of heresy and high treason, in the reign of Henry the Eighth.”
“I will not deny it,” replied Nightgall. “She was so. But how did you learn this?”