“Partly, from an inscription upon a small silver clasp, which I found upon her hood when I discovered her body in the Devilin Tower,” replied Cholmondeley; “and partly, from inquiries since made. I have ascertained that the Lady Mountjoy was imprisoned with her husband in the Tower; and that at the time of his execution she received a pardon. I would learn from you why she was subsequently detained?—why she was called Alexia?—and why her child was taken from her?”
“She lost her senses on the day of her husbands death,” replied Nightgall. “I will tell you nothing more.”
“Alas!” cried Cicely, who had listened with breathless interest to what was said, “hers was a tragical history.”
“Yours will be still more tragical, if you continue obstinate,” rejoined Nightgall. “Come along.”
“Heaven preserve me from this monster!” she shrieked. “Help me, Cholmondeley.”
“I am powerless as a crushed worm,” groaned the esquire, in a tone of anguish.
Nightgall laughed exultingly, and twining his arms around Cicely, held his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries, and forced her from the cell.
The sharpest pang he had recently endured was light to Cholmondeley, compared with his present maddening sensations, and had not insensibility relieved him, his reason would have given way. How long he remained in this state he knew not, but, on reviving, he found himself placed on a small pallet, and surrounded by three men, in sable dresses. His attire had been removed, and two of these persons were chafing his limbs with an ointment, which had a marvellous effect in subduing the pain, and restoring pliancy to the sinews and joints; while the third, who was no other than Sorrocold, bathed his temples with a pungent liquid. In a short time, he felt himself greatly restored, and able to move; and when he thought how valuable the strength he had thus suddenly and mysteriously acquired would have been a short time ago, he groaned aloud.
“Give him a cup of wine,’” said an authoritative voice, which Cholmondeley fancied he recognised, from the further end of the cell. And glancing in the direction of the speaker, he beheld Renard.
“It may be dangerous, your excellency,” returned Sorrocold.