The woman seemed to recognize the voice, for she at once threw the door wide, and stood before them. She was a huge, raw-boned creature, and looked as strong as a man; she was attired in a tattered gown, and a cloak was wound about her shoulders. Gazing sharply at the two prisoners, she burst into a grating chuckle. “Yankees, eh,” she said, as though highly pleased. “But, no,” gazing at Longsword once more, “this one is Irish, even the scar does not hide that, though it covers the greater part of his face.” “I’ll thank ye,” growled the dragoon, “not to indulge in any personal remarks, mam.” The woman laughed gleefully, and wagged her head. “The Irish all have tempers,” she said, “but that don’t do them any harm. I like them the better for it.” She then gave her attention to another examination of Ethan. “This one is younger,” she said, “but he’ll give the most trouble; I can see it in his face. A strong room with a grated door will be needed here, Mr. Danvers,” she chuckled. “If the young gentleman is not provided with these luxuries he may slip through my fingers.” “That must not happen,” said Danvers, sharply. “None of your nonsense, Meg! Put them in a place where they will be safe.” “But that will cost more, Mr. Danvers,” said the woman, with a grin, “a very great deal more, sir.” “Let it,” returned Danvers, shortly. “But don’t keep us standing here until wide daylight.” The woman favored him with no mild look; nevertheless she did as she was bidden. A moment later they found themselves in a narrow, low-ceilinged room, cluttered with broken furniture and cooking utensils; then the woman opened a heavy door, disclosing a flight of steep steps leading into a deep cellar; descending these, Meg still leading the way and holding a reeking oil lamp above her head, they brought up before a wall of massive stone work into which were set some heavy grated doors of iron. “I love to look at them,” cried the woman, setting the lamp upon the floor and fumbling at her belt for the bunch of keys that hung there. “Ah, they are beautiful doors, as safe and as strong as any in Europe. Any one whom they ever closed upon has been held as fast as a rat in a trap. Not one has ever escaped. The great noble whose private prison this was in the old days, Mr. Danvers, knew how to build. Ah, yes, indeed. But,” with a chuckle, “he never dreamed how his handiwork was to bring me my living long years after he was in his grave. Oh, no, he never knew that.” She unlocked the door before which she stood, and slowly swung it open, creaking and groaning. Then she stood aside and bowed mockingly to Ethan. “Enter,” she invited with a grin. “Enter, my young Yankee, and never hope to leave this pretty cell until Mr. Danvers gives me the word.”