“Does he bring me the token?” demanded the maiden, from within.
“Ay marry, does he, child,” replied the dame, winking at the jailer. “Heaven forgive me the falsehood,” she added,—“for I know not what she means.”
“Leave us a moment, dear mother,” said Cicely, hastily unfastening the door. “Now, Master Nightgall,” she continued, as Dame Potentia retired, and the jailer entered the room, “have you fulfilled your compact?”
“Cicely,” rejoined the jailer, regarding her sternly, “you have not kept faith with me. You have despatched a messenger to the palace.”
“Oh! he is free,” exclaimed the maiden, joyfully,—“your plans have been defeated?”
Nightgall smiled bitterly.
“My messenger cannot have failed,” she continued, with a sudden change of countenance. “I am sure Lord Guilford would not abandon his favourite esquire. Tell me, what has happened?”
“I am come to claim fulfilment of your pledge,” rejoined the jailer.
“Then you have set him free,” cried Cicely. “Where is the token?”
“Behold it,” replied Nightgall, raising his hand, on which her lover’s ring sparkled.