Though now you have no sea-cap on your head:
Take him away; he knows I know him well.
Twelfth Night--Act 3.
Apprehended as a great state-criminal, Bertram had been committed to the safekeeping of Walladmor Castle as the only place in the county strong enough to resist the attempts for his deliverance which were anticipated from the numerous smugglers on the coast.--As regarded his personal comfort however, and putting out of view the chances of any such violent liberation, this arrangement was one on which a prisoner had reason to congratulate himself. For Sir Morgan Walladmor would not allow that any person within his gates should be inhospitably treated: and, with the exception of his shackles, Bertram now found himself more comfortably lodged in his prison than he had been for some time before. He flung himself into bed, and was soon asleep. But the fury of the wind about this exposed rock, and the fury of the sea at its base,--with his own agitation of mind and body,--frequently awoke him. As often he fell asleep again; and continually dreamed of the fields of Germany and the friends whom he had left there. Sometimes he was betrayed into imminent peril--sometimes into battle--sometimes into flight: now he saw hands stretched forth from thick vapours to help him; and again he saw the countenances of familiar friends turned upon him with altered looks and glaring with mysterious revenge. Then came running from the depth of forests a dear companion of his youth with a coronet of flowers who smiled as in former times: but suddenly he shook his head and vanished. The forests also vanished; and the flowers perished: and he found himself on board the Fleurs-de-lys, with Captain le Hamois by his side, fleeting over endless seas--and seeking in vain for an anchor. He was on board the ship, and yet was not; but saw it from a distance: and in this perplexity the Fleurs-de-lys changed into a judgment-seat; and an orator was before it--pleading in some unknown tongue against himself, and bringing to light many a secret crime that had lain buried under a weight of years----
Confusion, struggle, shame, and woe:
Things to be hid that were not hid;
Which all confus'd he could not know
Whether he suffer'd or he did:[[1]]
and when the judgment seat began to speak, he died away with fear and--suddenly awoke.
But a voice now reached him that was no voice of judgment or dismay; the tones were low and sweet; and they spoke as woman speaks when she comes to comfort. "Edward, dear Edward!" he heard distinctly uttered at a few yards from his bed side. The storm was laid; the wind was hushed; the sea had ceased to rave: it was two o'clock in the morning; and every motion was audible. Recollecting the adamantine strength of his prison, Bertram felt his German superstitions stealing over him; but again he heard the voice; and, opening his eyes, he saw a dull light in the room. Instantly he raised his head; and he beheld the figure of a young woman standing by a little table. She was muffled up in the rich furs of the sea-otter; and the small lamp which she held in her hand streamed upwards a feeble gleam upon her countenance, sufficient however to discover the superb beauty and touching expression which had drawn all eyes upon St. David's day. It was indeed Miss Walladmor: and at her elbow, but retiring half a step behind her, stood a young person who was apparently her maid. "Dear Edward!" she began again, "listen to me. I dare not stay now: if I were seen, all would be discovered: but I will write an answer to your letter addressed to Paris. Meantime, I will find some friend that shall put the means of escape in your way; I hope to-morrow in the dusk of the evening. Oh! Edward, do not--do not let it pass by: for every body here is your enemy:" and saying this she burst into tears. "Go on board a ship immediately. And here is money, Edward: and here is my watch, that you may know how the hours go. It is now two o'clock. Promise me that you will escape: better times may come: promise me, dear Edward."