"Why thou, mine honest prince of prisons, must keep ward in my absence.

Let Tressilian enter if he will, but see thou let no one come out. If

the damsel herself would make a break, as 'tis not unlike she may, scare

her back with rough words; she is but a paltry player's wench after

all."

"Nay for that matter," said Lawrence, "I might shut the iron wicket upon

her that stands without the double door, and so force per force she will

be bound to her answer without more trouble."

"Then Tressilian will not get access to her," said Lambourne, reflecting

a moment. "But 'tis no matter; she will be detected in his chamber, and

that is all one. But confess, thou old bat's-eyed dungeon-keeper, that

you fear to keep awake by yourself in that Mervyn's Tower of thine?"

"Why, as to fear, Master Lambourne," said the fellow, "I mind it not the

turning of a key; but strange things have been heard and seen in that

tower. You must have heard, for as short time as you have been in

Kenilworth, that it is haunted by the spirit of Arthur ap Mervyn, a

wild chief taken by fierce Lord Mortimer when he was one of the Lords

Marchers of Wales, and murdered, as they say, in that same tower which

bears his name."

"Oh, I have heard the tale five hundred times," said Lambourne, "and how

the ghost is always most vociferous when they boil leeks and stirabout,

or fry toasted cheese, in the culinary regions. Santo Diavolo, man, hold

thy tongue, I know all about it!"

"Ay, but thou dost not, though," said the turnkey, "for as wise as thou

wouldst make thyself. Ah, it is an awful thing to murder a prisoner in

his ward!--you that may have given a man a stab in a dark street know

nothing of it. To give a mutinous fellow a knock on the head with the

keys, and bid him be quiet, that's what I call keeping order in the

ward; but to draw weapon and slay him, as was done to this Welsh lord,

THAT raises you a ghost that will render your prison-house untenantable

by any decent captive for some hundred years. And I have that regard

for my prisoners, poor things, that I have put good squires and men of

worship, that have taken a ride on the highway, or slandered my Lord of

Leicester, or the like, fifty feet under ground, rather than I would

put them into that upper chamber yonder that they call Mervyn's Bower.

Indeed, by good Saint Peter of the Fetters, I marvel my noble lord, or

Master Varney, could think of lodging guests there; and if this Master

Tressilian could get any one to keep him company, and in especial a

pretty wench, why, truly, I think he was in the right on't."




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