“Here!” exclaimed Nightgall, starting, but instantly recovering himself, he turned to Peter Trusbut, and in a voice of forced composure, added—“You will be responsible then for him, Master Pantler, with your life and goods to the Queen’s highness, which, if he escapes, will both be forfeited.” “Indeed!” cried Trusbut, in dismay. “I—I—” “Yes—yes—my husband understands all that,” interposed Dame Potentia; “he will be answerable for him—and so will I.” “You will understand still further,” proceeded Nightgall, with a smile of triumph, “that he is not to stir forth except for one hour at mid-day, and then that his walks are to be restricted to the green.” While this was passing, Og observed in a whisper to Xit—“If I were possessed of that bunch of keys at Nightgall’s girdle, I could soon find Cicely.” “Indeed!” said Xit. “Then you shall soon have them.” And the next minute he disappeared under the table. “You have a warrant for what you do, I suppose?” demanded Og, desirous of attracting the jailor’s attention. “Behold it,” replied Nightgall, taking a parchment from his vest. He then deliberately seated himself, and producing an ink-horn and pen, wrote Peter Trusbut’s name upon it. “Master Pantler,” he continued, delivering it to him, “I have addressed it to you. Once more I tell you, you will be responsible for the prisoner. And with this I take my leave.” “Not so fast, villain,” said Cholmondeley, seizing his arm with a firm grasp,—“where is Cicely?” “You will never behold her more,” replied Nightgall. “What have you done with the captive Alexia?” pursued the esquire, bitterly. “She likewise is beyond your reach,” answered the jailor, moodily. And shaking off Cholmondeley’s grasp, he rushed out of the chamber with such haste as nearly to upset Xit, who appeared to have placed himself purposely in his path. This occurrence threw a gloom over the mirth of the party. The conversation flagged, and even an additional supply of wine failed to raise the spirits of the guests. Just as they were separating, hasty steps were heard on the stairs, and Night-gall again presented himself. Rushing up to Cholmondeley, who was sitting apart wrapt in gloomy thought, he exclaimed in a voice of thunder—“My keys!—my keys!—you have stolen my keys.” “What keys?” demanded the esquire, starting to his feet. “Those of Alexia’s dungeon.” “Restore them instantly,” cried Nightgall, furiously—“or I will instantly carry you back to the Nun’s Bower.” “Were they in my possession,” replied Cholmondeley, “nothing should force them from me till I had searched your most secret hiding-places.” “‘Tis therefore you stole them,” cried Nightgall. “See where my girdle has been cut,” he added, appealing to Peter Trusbut. “If they are not instantly restored, I will convey you all before the lieutenant, and you know how he will treat the matter.”