Drunken Roxley! Shake off your stupor, for one instant! Turn over, man! Murmur; do something that will startle this robber who is picking your pocket with the caution and address of one who realizes that his life is between his thumb and finger. But no; you merely snore, Roxley, and you do not start at the hand that by quarters of inches draws the key from its hiding-place. It is too late now; for he has glided from your side with it. "Harmless sot!" thought Lord Geoffry, contemptuously. "Had my Lady Macbeth drugged his posset he could not be safer! Now, pray Heaven, Andrew left the lock as well-oiled as Boyd thought!" The candle stood so that it had lighted him in his attempt, though screened from the eyelids of Roxley and Dawkin. Once more he made his former signal. Then he inserted the key. It moved readily in the wards. He softly pushed open the door. There was no sound yet from the occupant. He stole back to the candle, returned with it, sheltering the flame with his palm, and, after a parting glance backward around the shadowy East Room, entered the cell, tiptoe. The object of his scrutiny lay in a corner, where he had been secured to a staple, by a rope, in addition to his pinioned legs and arms. He had started into a semi-upright attitude and was maintaining it, despite his cords, leaning forward with a most miserably eager and despairing expression upon his wild countenance. Lord Geoffry partially closed the door as he came in. He advanced with one hand raised, to remind the other of those so near them. The prisoner showed that he appreciated the perilous situation by a nod. Another step or two brought the knight to his side. "Do they sleep, out there?" whispered the captive, hoarsely. "As if they were dead. Two in that room; the rest elsewhere. Did you hear my scratching? You expected me?" "Yes, but I could make no louder answer. I caught Boyd's warning. Where is he?" "Waiting until the half-hour strikes; with that he comes to the door of that outer room, and I can tell him whatsoever be these tidings you bring. What are you--a refugee? Ah, so I supposed. Trust me, then, with what you have to say. In a moment I will tell you why you may. We are all friends here." "Great God!" interrupted the prisoner, in a bewilderment increasing each instant, despite the many emotions of the situation. "You are no servant of Boyd's! Are you his kinsman? I have heard your voice, seen you before! For the love of Heaven lean forward where I can see your countenance clearly. I am called Hugh Chisholm."