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On recovering from the stunning effects of the blow he had received, Cuthbert Cholmondeley found himself stretched on the floor of a gloomy vault, or dungeon, for such he judged it. At first, he thought he must be dreaming, and tried to shake off the horrible nightmare by which he supposed himself oppressed. But a moment’s reflection undeceived him; and starting to his feet, he endeavoured to explore the cell in which he was confined. A heavy chain, which bound his leg to the floor, prevented him from moving more than a few paces; and, convinced that escape was impossible, he sank upon the ground in despair.

Unable to assign any cause for his imprisonment, and wholly at a loss to imagine what offence he had committed, he taxed his brain as to everything that had recently happened to him. This naturally directed his thoughts to the fair Cicely—and with her gentle image came the recollection of the malicious countenance and threatening gestures of Lawrence Nightgall. Remembering what Magog had told him of the jealousy and vindictive nature of this person, and remembering also that he had heard him described as the chief jailer, he felt that he need seek no further for the motive and the author of his imprisonment.

The assurance, however, which he had thus gained, afforded him no consolation, but rather tended to increase his disquietude. If he had been a prisoner of state, he might have hoped for eventual release; but placed in the hands of so remorseless and unscrupulous an enemy as Nightgall had shown himself, he felt he had little to hope. This consideration filled him with anguish, which was heightened as he thought of the triumph of his savage rival, who by some means—for he seemed desperate enough to have recourse to any expedient—might possess himself of the object of his passion. Fired by this thought, Cholmondeley again sprang to his feet, and strove with all his force to burst his bondage. But the effort was fruitless; and by lacerating his hands, and straining his limbs, he only added bodily torture to his mental suffering. Exhausted at length, he sank once more upon the floor.

By this time, having become habituated to the gloom of the place, he fancied he could make out that it was an arched cell of a few feet in width, and corresponding height. The only light admitted was from the entrance, which appeared to open upon a passage branching off on the left, and upon a further range of dungeons extending in the same direction.

Not altogether unacquainted with the prisons of the Tower, Cholmondeley felt against the walls to try whether he could find any of those melancholy memorials which their unfortunate inmates delighted to bequeath to their successors, and which might serve as a clue to the particular place of his confinement. But nothing but the smooth surface of the stone met his touch. This circumstance, however, and the peculiar form of the cell, induced him to think that it must be situated beneath, or at no great distance from the Devilin Tower, as he had heard of a range of subterranean dungeons in that quarter: and, it may be added, he was right in his conjecture.

The cell in which he was thrown was part of a series of such dreadful receptacles, contrived in the thickness of the ballium wall, and extending from the Beauchamp Tower to the Devilin Tower. They were appropriated to those prisoners who were doomed to confinement for life.

Horrible recollections then flashed upon his mind of the dreadful sufferings he had heard that the miserable wretches immured in these dungeons underwent—how some were tortured—some destroyed by secret and expeditious means—others by the more lingering process of starvation. As the latter idea crossed him, he involuntarily stretched out his hand to ascertain whether any provisions had been left him; but he could find none.

The blood froze in his veins as he thought of dying thus; his hair stiffened upon his head; and he was only prevented from crying out to make his lamentable case known to the occupants of any of the adjoining cells, by the conviction of its utter futility. But this feeling passed away, and was succeeded by calmer and more consolatory reflections. While in this frame of mind, Nature asserted her sway, and he dropped asleep.

How long he remained thus, he knew not; but he was awakened by a loud and piercing scream. Raising himself, he listened intently. The scream was presently repeated in a tone so shrill and unearthly, that it filled him with apprehensions of a new kind. The outcry having been a third time raised, he was debating within himself whether he should in any way reply to it, when he thought he beheld a shadowy figure glide along the passage. It paused at a short distance from him. A glimmer of light fell upon the arch on the left, but the place where the figure stood was buried in darkness. After gazing for some time at the mysterious visitant, and passing his hand across his brow to assure himself that his eyesight did not deceive him, Cholmondeley summoned courage enough to address it. No answer was returned; but the figure, which had the semblance of a female, with the hands raised and clasped together as if in supplication or prayer, and with a hood drawn over the face, remained perfectly motionless. Suddenly, it glided forward, but with a step so noiseless and swift, that almost before the esquire was aware of the movement, it was at his side. He then felt a hand cold as marble placed upon his own, and upon grasping the fingers they appeared so thin and bony, that he thought he must have encountered a skeleton. Paralysed with fright, Cholmondeley shrunk back as far as he was able; but the figure pursued him, and shrieked in his ear—“My child, my child!—you have taken my child!”

Convinced from the voice that he had a being of this world to deal with, the esquire seized her vestment, and resolved to detain her till he had ascertained who she was and what was the cause of her cries; but just as he had begun to question her, a distant footstep was heard, ands uttering a loud shriek, and crying—“He comes!—he comes!”—the female broke from him and disappeared.

Fresh shrieks were presently heard in a more piteous tone than before, mixed with angry exclamations in a man’s voice, which Cholmondeley fancied sounded like that of Nightgall. A door was next shut with great violence; and all became silent.

While he was musing on this strange occurrence, Cholmondeley heard footsteps advancing along the passage on the left, and in another moment Lawrence Nightgall stood before him.

The jailer, who carried a lamp, eyed the captive for a few moments in silence, and with savage satisfaction.

“It is to you, then, I owe my imprisonment, villain,” said Cholmondeley, regarding him sternly.

“It is,” replied the jailer; “and you can readily conjecture, I doubt not, why I have thus dealt with you.”

“I can,” resumed the esquire; “your jealousy prompted you to the deed. But you shall bitterly rue it.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Nightgall. “You are wholly in my power. I am not, however, come to threaten, but to offer you freedom.”

“On what terms?” demanded Cholmondeley.

“On these,” replied the jailer, scowling—“that you swear to abandon Cicely.”

“Never!” replied the esquire.

“Then your fate is sealed,” rejoined Nightgall. “You shall never quit this spot.”

“Think not to move me by any such idle threat,” returned Cholmondeley. “You dare not detain me.”

“Who shall prevent me?” laughed the jailor, scornfully. “I, alone, possess the key of these dungeons. You are their sole occupant.”

“That is false,” retorted the esquire. “There is another captive,—a miserable female,—whom I, myself, have seen.”

“Has she been here?” cried Nightgall, with a look of disquietude.

“Not many minutes since,” replied the other, fixing a scrutinizing glance upon him. “She came in search of her child. What have you done with it, villain?”

Cholmondeley had no particular object in making the inquiry. But he was astonished at the effect produced by it on the jailer, who started and endeavoured to hide his confusion by pulling his cap over his brows.

“She is a maniac,” he said, at length, in a hoarse voice.

“If it be so,” rejoined the esquire, severely; “she has been driven out of her senses by your barbarous usage. I more than suspect you have murdered her child.”

“Entertain what suspicions you please,” replied Nightgall, evidently relieved by the surmise. “I am not accountable for the ravings of a distracted woman.”

“Who is she?” demanded the esquire.

“The names of those confined within these cells are never divulged,’” returned the jailer. “She has been a prisoner of state for nineteen years.”

“And during that term her child was born—ha?” pursued Cholmondeley.

“I will answer no further questions,” replied Nightgall, doggedly. “One word before I depart. I am not your only enemy. You have others more powerful, and equally implacable. You have incurred the displeasure of the Privy Council, and I have a warrant, under the hands of its chief members, for your execution. I am now about to summon the headsman for the task.”

“Then your offer to liberate me was mere mockery,” observed the esquire.

“Not so,” replied the other; “and I again repeat it. Swear to abandon Cicely, and to maintain profound silence as to what you have just seen, and I will convey you by a secret passage underneath the Tower moat to a place of security, where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies, and will take the risk of your escape upon myself. Do you agree to this?”

“No,” replied Cholmondeley, firmly. “I distrust your statement, and defy your malice.”

“Obstinate fool!” growled the jailer. “Prepare to meet your fate in an hour.”

“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.

“Cicely, my beloved,” cried Cholmondeley, clasping her in his arms, “why—why have you done this?”

“To preserve you,” she replied, hurriedly. “Once out of this dungeon, I can bring assistance to liberate you.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Nightgall, who, having placed his ear to the wall, lost not a syllable of their discourse.

“It will be unavailing,” replied Cholmondeley. “No one will venture to oppose an order of the Council. You must make known my case to Lord Guilford Dudley. Take this ring. Explain all to him, and I may yet be saved. Do you hear me, Cicely?”

“I do,” she replied “And I,” added Nightgall.

“In case you fail,” continued the esquire, “the token of my escape shall be”—And placing his lips close to her ear, he spoke a few words in so low a tone, that they escaped the jailer. “Till you receive that token treat Nightgall as before.”

“Doubt it not,” she answered.

“I am content,” said the esquire.

“I see through the design,” muttered the jailer, “and will defeat it. Have you done?” he added, aloud.

“A moment,” replied Cholmondeloy, again pressing the damsel to his bosom, “I would sooner part with my life’s-blood than resign you.”

“I must go,” she cried, disengaging herself from his embrace. “Now, Master Nightgall, I am ready to attend you.”

“In an hour I shall return and release you,” said the jailer, addressing the prisoner. “Your hand, Cicely.”

“I will go alone,” she replied, shrinking from him with a look of abhorrence.

“As you please,” he rejoined, with affected carelessness. “You are mine.”

“Not till I have received the token. Farewell!” she murmured, turning her tearful gaze upon Cholmondeley.

“For ever!” exclaimed the youth.

And as they quitted the cell, he threw himself despairingly on the ground.

Issuing from the outer door of the dungeon, Cicely and her companion took their way towards the Stone Kitchen. They had not proceeded far, when they perceived several persons approaching them, who, as they drew nearer, proved to be Dame Potentia, Xit, and the giants.

“What have you been doing, Cicely?” inquired her adoptive mother, angrily. “I have been searching for you everywhere!”

“You shall know anon,” replied the maiden. “But come with me to the palace. I must see Lord Guilford Dudley, or the Duke of Northumberland, without a moment’s delay.”

“Warders,” interposed Nightgall, authoritatively: “go to Master Manger’s lodging in the Bloody Tower. Bid him hasten with two assistants, and the sworn tormentor, to the dungeon beneath the Devilin Tower. He will know which I mean. Justice is about to be done upon a prisoner.”

“Oh no—no—do not go,” cried Cicely, arresting the giants. “He does not mean it. He is jesting.”

“Go home, then, and do not stir forth till I bring you the token,” rejoined Nightgall, in a deep whisper.

“In Heaven’s name, what is the meaning of all this?” cried Dame Potentia, in amazement.

“I will inform you,” replied the jailer, drawing her aside. “Your daughter was about to elope with the young esquire. I detected them trying to escape by the secret passage beneath the moat, of which you know I have the key. Lock her within her chamber. Pay no attention to her tears, entreaties, or assertions. And, above all, take care no one has any communication with her.”

“Trust me to guard her,” rejoined Dame Potentia. “I know what these court-gallants are. They will venture anything, and contrive anything, when a pretty girl is concerned. But what has happened to the esquire?”

“He is safe for the present,” answered Nightgall, significantly.

Cicely, meantime, had availed herself of their conversation, to whisper a few words to Xit.

“Take this ring,” she said, placing the ornament given her by her lover, in the hands of the dwarf, “and fly to the palace. Show it to Lord Guilford Dudley, and say that the wearer is imprisoned in the dungeons beneath the Devilin Tower. Assistance must be speedily rendered, as he is ordered for immediate and secret execution. Do you understand?”

“Most precisely, lovely damsel,” replied Xit, kissing her hand, as he took the ring; “and I guess the name and condition of the prisoner, as well as the nature of the interest you take in him.”

“Fly!” interrupted Cicely. “Not a moment is to be lost. You shall be well rewarded for your trouble.”

“I desire no higher reward than your thanks, adorable maiden,” replied Xit. “Your behests shall be punctually obeyed.” So saying, he disappeared.

“Come, young mistress,” cried Dame Potentia, seizing her adoptive daughter’s arm, “you must to your chamber. You have led me and your father, and these worthy warders, a pretty dance. But you shall lead us all where you list, if I let you out of my sight in future.”

And thanking the giants, who had looked on in speechless astonishment, she dragged Cicely along with her.

“Remember!” whispered Nightgall, as he walked a few paces by the side of the latter.

“I shall expect the token in an hour,” she answered in the same tone.

“You shall have it,” he rejoined.

With this, he halted, and retraced his steps. The others then separated. Cicely was conveyed to the Stone Kitchen; and the giants, after looking in vain for Xit, and calling to him repeatedly but without effect, returned to the By-ward Tower. Just as they reached it, a shot was fired from the battlements, and was immediately answered from those of the Middle Tower. Other reports followed. And, alarmed by the sounds, the huge brethren hastily unlocked the door of their lodging, and entering it, to their infinite dismay, found the prisoner gone.