The attack which Dalgetty made upon Argyle’s person was so sudden and unexpected, that he easily prostrated him on the floor of the dungeon, and held him down with one hand, while his right, grasping the Marquis’s throat, was ready to strangle him on the slightest attempt to call for assistance.

“Lord of Argyle,” he said, “it is now my turn to lay down the terms of capitulation.  If you list to show me the private way by which you entered the dungeon, you shall escape, on condition of being my Locum TENENS, as we said at the Mareschal-College, until your warder visits his prisoners.  But if not, I will first strangle you—­I learned the art from a Polonian heyduck, who had been a slave in the Ottoman seraglio—­and then seek out a mode of retreat.”

“Villain! you would not murder me for my kindness,” murmured Argyle.

“Not for your kindness, my lord,” replied Dalgetty:  “but first, to teach your lordship the jus GENTIUM towards cavaliers who come to you under safe-conduct; and secondly, to warn you of the danger of proposing dishonourable terms to any worthy soldado, in order to tempt him to become false to his standard during the term of his service.”

“Spare my life,” said Argyle, “and I will do as you require.”

Dalgetty maintained his gripe upon the Marquis’s throat, compressing it a little while he asked questions, and relaxing it so far as to give him the power of answering them.

“Where is the secret door into the dungeon?” he demanded.

“Hold up the lantern to the corner on your right hand, you will discern the iron which covers the spring,” replied the Marquis.

“So far so good.—­Where does the passage lead to?”

“To my private apartment behind the tapestry,” answered the prostrate nobleman.

“From thence how shall I reach the gateway?”

“Through the grand gallery, the anteroom, the lackeys’ waiting hall, the grand guardroom—­”

“All crowded with soldiers, factionaries, and attendants?—­that will never do for me, my lord;—­have you no secret passage to the gate, as you have to your dungeons?  I have seen such in Germany.”

“There is a passage through the chapel,” said the Marquis, “opening from my apartment.”

“And what is the pass-word at the gate?”

“The sword of Levi,” replied the Marquis; “but if you will receive my pledge of honour, I will go with you, escort you through every guard, and set you at full liberty with a passport.”

“I might trust you, my lord, were your throat not already black with the grasp of my fingers—­as it is, BESO Los Manos A USTED, as the Spaniard says.  Yet you may grant me a passport;—­are there writing materials in your apartment?”

“Surely; and blank passports ready to be signed.  I will attend you there,” said the Marquis, “instantly.”