“In case you fail,” continued the esquire, “the token of my escape shall be”—And placing his lips close to her ear, he spoke a few words in so low a tone, that they escaped the jailer. “Till you receive that token treat Nightgall as before.”
“Doubt it not,” she answered.
“I am content,” said the esquire.
“I see through the design,” muttered the jailer, “and will defeat it. Have you done?” he added, aloud.
“A moment,” replied Cholmondeloy, again pressing the damsel to his bosom, “I would sooner part with my life’s-blood than resign you.”
“I must go,” she cried, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Now, Master Nightgall, I am ready to attend you.”
“In an hour I shall return and release you,” said the jailer, addressing the prisoner. “Your hand, Cicely.”
“I will go alone,” she replied, shrinking from him with a look of abhorrence.
“As you please,” he rejoined, with affected carelessness. “You are mine.”
“Not till I have received the token. Farewell!” she murmured, turning her tearful gaze upon Cholmondeley.