“Whenever it comes it will find me prepared,” rejoined the esquire. Nightgall glared at him fiercely for a moment from beneath his shaggy brows. He then strode sullenly away. But his departure was prevented by Cicely, who suddenly appeared at the mouth of the dungeon. “You here!” he exclaimed recoiling, and trembling as if an apparition had crossed his path. “How have you obtained admittance?”, “It matters not,” she answered. “I am come to purchase your prisoner’s freedom.” “You know the terms?” rejoined the jailer, eagerly. “I do,” she replied; “and will comply with them when you have fulfilled your share of the compact.” “Cicely!” cried Cholmondeley, who had been to the full as much astonished at her unexpected appearance as the jailer. “Cicely!” he cried, starting to his feet, and extending his hands towards her. “Do not consent to his proposal. Do not sacrifice yourself for me. I would die a thousand deaths rather than you should be his.” “Heed him not,” interposed Nightgall, grasping her arm, and preventing her from approaching her lover; “but attend to me. You see this warrant,” he added, producing a parchment. “It is from the Council, and directs that the prisoner’s execution shall take place in such manner as may best consist with despatch and secrecy. If I deliver it to Manger, the headsman, it will be promptly obeyed. And I shall deliver it, unless you promise compliance.” “The villain deceives you, dear Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, in a voice of anguish. “The Council have not the power of life and death. They cannot—dare not order my execution without form or trial.” “The Council will answer for their actions themselves,” rejoined Nightgall, carelessly. “Their warrant will bear me and my comrades harmless. Mauger will not hesitate to act upon it. What is your determination, Cicely?” “Free him,” she replied. “Recal your words, sweet Cicely,” cried Cholmondeley, throwing himself at her feet, “if you have any love for me. You doom me to worse than death by this submission.” “Cholmondeley,” she replied in a mournful voice, “my resolution is taken, and even you cannot induce me to change it. The opening of our love has been blighted. My heart has been crushed, almost before it knew for whom it beat. It matters not now what becomes of me. If my life could preserve yours, or restore you to freedom, I would freely yield it. But as nothing will suffice except my hand, I give that. Think of me no more,—or think of me only as another’s.‘’’ “That thought were madness!” groaned Cholmondeley. “Master Lawrence Nightgall,” continued Cicely, “you say you can conduct the prisoner beyond the walls of the Tower, Bring me back some token that you have done so, and I am yours.” “Willingly,” replied the jailer. “Retire then for a moment, while I arrange with him what the token shall be.” Nightgall hesitated. “Refuse, and I retract my promise,” she added. And the jailer, with a suspicious look, reluctantly left the cell.