“I am not Alexia, but whoever you are, liberate me from this horrible torture, or put me to death, and so free me from misery.” After some search, Cholmondeley discovered the key of the dungeon and unlocking it, beheld an old man in a strange stooping posture, with his head upon his breast, and his back bent almost double. The walls of the cell, which was called the Little Ease, were so low, and so contrived, that the wretched inmate could neither stand, walk, sit, nor he at full length within them. With difficulty,—for the poor wretch’s limbs were too much cramped by his long and terrible confinement, to allow him to move,—Cholmondeley succeeded in dragging him forth. “How long have you been immured here?” he inquired. “I know not,” replied the old man. “Not many weeks perhaps—but to me it seems an eternity. Support me—oh! support me! I am sinking fast!” “A draught of water will revive you,” cried Cholmondeley. “I will bring you some in a moment.” And he was about to hurry to his cell for the pitcher, when the old man checked him.. “It is useless,” he cried. “I am dying—nothing can save me. Young man,” he continued, fixing his glazing eyes on Cholmondeley. “When I was first brought to the Tower, I was as young as you. I have grown old in captivity. My life has been passed in these dismal places. I was imprisoned by the tyrant Henry VIII. for my adherence to the religion of my fathers—and I have witnessed such dreadful things, that, were I to relate them, it would blanch your hair like mine. Heaven have mercy on my soul!” And, sinking backwards, he expired with a hollow groan. Satisfied that life was wholly extinct, Cholmondeley continued his search for the scarcely less unfortunate Alexia. Traversing the narrow gallery, he could discover no other door, and he therefore returned to the torture-room, and from thence retraced his steps to the cell. As he approached it, Nightgall, who heard his footsteps, called out to him, and entreated to be set at liberty. “I will do so, provided you will conduct me to the dungeon of Alexia,” replied the esquire. “You have not found her?” rejoined the jailor. “I have not,” replied Cholmondeley. “Will you guide me to it?” Nightgall eagerly answered in the affirmative. The esquire was about to unlock the chain, but as he drew near him, the jailor’s countenance assumed so malignant an expression, that he determined not to trust him. Despite his entreaties, he again turned to depart. “You will never get out without me,” said Nightgall. “I will make the attempt,” rejoined Cholmondeley. And wrapping himself in the jailor’s ample cloak, and putting on his cap, he quitted the dungeon.