“There your ambitious designs peep forth, my lord,” rejoined Jane. “It is for yourself, not for me you are plotting. You would be king!” “I would,” returned Dudley. “There is no need to mask my wishes now.” “Sooner than this shall be,” rejoined Jane, severely, “I will hasten to Whitehall, and warn Mary of her danger.” “Do so,” replied Dudley, “and take your last farewell of me. You are aware of the nature of the plot—of the names and object of those concerned in it. Reveal all—make your own terms with the queen. But think not you can check it. We have gone too far to retreat. When the royal guards come hither to convey me to the Tower, they will not find their prey, but they will soon hear of me. You will precipitate measures, but you will not prevent them. Go, madam.” “Dudley,” replied Jane, falling at his feet—“by your love or me—by your allegiance to your sovereign—by your duty to your Maker—by every consideration that weighs with you—I implore you to relinquish your design.” “I have already told you my fixed determination, madam,” he returned, repulsing her. “Act as you think proper.” Jane arose and walked slowly towards the door. Dudley laid his hand upon his sword, half drew it, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard, muttered between his ground teeth, “No, no—let her go. She dares not betray me.” As Jane reached the door, her strength failed her, and she caught against the hangings for support. “Dudley,” she murmured, “help me—I faint.” In an instant, he was by her side. “You cannot betray your husband he said, catching her in his arms. “I cannot—I cannot,” she murmured, as her head fell upon his bosom. Jane kept her husband’s secret. But her own peace of mind was utterly gone. Her walks—her studies—her occupations had no longer any charms for her. Even devotion had lost its solace. She could no longer examine her breast as heretofore—no longer believe herself reproachless! She felt she was an accessary to the great crime about to be committed; and with a sad presentiment of the result, she became a prey to grief,—almost to despair. XXIII.—HOW XIT WAS IMPRISONED IN THE CONSTABLE TOWER; AND HOW HE WAS WEDDED TO THE “SCAVENGER’S DAUGHTER.” Persuading himself that his capture was matter of jest, Xit kept up his braggadocio air and gait, until he found himself within a few paces of the Constable Tower,—a fortification situated on the east of the White Tower, and resembling in its style of architecture, though somewhat smaller in size, the corresponding structure on the west, the Beauchamp Tower. As Nightgall pointed to this building, and told him with a malicious grin that it was destined to be his lodging, the dwarf’s countenance fell. All his heroism forsook him; and casting a half-angry, half-fearful look at his guards, who were laughing loudly at his terrors, he darted suddenly backwards, and made towards a door in the north-east turret of the White Tower.