While her bosom alternately fluttered with hope, or palpitated with fear, and her hands mechanically pursued their employment, she chanced to raise her eyes, and beheld the sinister gaze of Lawrence Nightgall fixed upon her. There was something in his malignant look that convinced her he read what was passing in her breast—and there was a bitter and exulting smile on his lip which, while it alarmed her on her account, terrified her (she knew not why) for her lover. “You are thinking of the young esquire who left you an hour ago,” he observed sarcastically. “I will not attempt to deny it,” replied Cicely, colouring; “I am.” “I know it,” rejoined the jailer; “and he dared to tell you he loved you?” Cicely made no reply. “And you?—what answer did you give him, mistress?” continued Nightgall, furiously grasping her arm. “What answer did you give him, I say?” “Let me go,” cried Cicely. “You hurt me dreadfully. I will not be questioned thus.” “I overheard what you said to him,” rejoined the jailer. “You told him that you loved him—that you had loved no other—and would wed no other.” “I told him the truth,” exclaimed Cicely. “I do love him, and will wed him.” “It is false,” cried Nightgall, laughing maliciously. “You will never see him again.” “How know you that?” she cried, in alarm. “He has left the Tower—for ever,” returned the jailer, moodily. “Impossible!” cried Cicely. “The Duke of Northumberland has given orders that no one shall go forth without a pass. Besides, he told me he was returning to the palace.” “I tell you he is gone,” thundered Nightgall. “Hear me, Cicely,” he continued, passionately. “I have loved you long—desperately. I would give my life—my soul for you. Do not cast me aside for this vain court-gallant, who pursues you only to undo you. He would never wed you.” “He has sworn to do so,” replied Cicely. “Indeed!” cried Nightgall, grinding his teeth, “The oath will never be kept. Cicely, you must—you shall be mine.” “Never!” replied the maiden. “Do you suppose I would unite myself to one whom I hate, as I do you?” “Hate me!” cried the jailer, grasping her arm with such force that she screamed with pain. “Do you dare to tell me so to my face?” “I do,” she rejoined. “Release me, monster!” “Body of my father! what’s the matter?” roared Magog, who was sitting near them. “Leave go your hold of the damsel, Master Nightgall,” he added, laying down his knife and fork. “Not at your bidding, you overgrown ox!” replied the jailer. “We’ll see that,” replied the giant. And stretching out his hand, he seized him by the nape of the neck, and drew him forcibly backwards. “You shall bleed for this, caitiff!” exclaimed Nightgall, disengaging himself, and menacing him with his poniard.