“That is false,” retorted the esquire. “There is another captive,—a miserable female,—whom I, myself, have seen.”
“Has she been here?” cried Nightgall, with a look of disquietude.
“Not many minutes since,” replied the other, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon him. “She came in search of her child. What have you done with it, villain?”
Cholmondeley had no particular object in making the inquiry. But he was astonished at the effect produced by it on the jailer, who started and endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling his cap over his brows.
“She is a maniac,” he said, at length, in a hoarse voice.
“If it be so,” rejoined the esquire, severely; “she has been driven out of her senses by your barbarous usage. I more than suspect you have murdered her child.”
“Entertain what suspicions you please,” replied Nightgall, evidently relieved by the surmise. “I am not accountable for the ravings of a distracted woman.”
“Who is she?” demanded the esquire.
“The names of those confined within these cells are never divulged,’” returned the jailer. “She has been a prisoner of state for nineteen years.”
“And during that term her child was born—ha?” pursued Cholmondeley.