“I know nothing of that,” said Wayland; “but I believe, if she is to reconcile herself with either Leicester or Varney, the side of the Castle of Kenilworth which will be safest for us will be the outside, from which we can fastest fly away.  It is not my purpose to abide an instant after delivery of the letter to Leicester, which waits but your commands to find its way to him.  See, here it is—­but no—­a plague on it—­I must have left it in my dog-hole, in the hay-loft yonder, where I am to sleep.”

“Death and fury!” said Tressilian, transported beyond his usual patience; “thou hast not lost that on which may depend a stake more important than a thousand such lives as thine?”

“Lost it!” answered Wayland readily; “that were a jest indeed!  No, sir, I have it carefully put up with my night-sack, and some matters I have occasion to use; I will fetch it in an instant.”

“Do so,” said Tressilian; “be faithful, and thou shalt be well rewarded.  But if I have reason to suspect thee, a dead dog were in better case than thou!”

Wayland bowed, and took his leave with seeming confidence and alacrity, but, in fact, filled with the utmost dread and confusion.  The letter was lost, that was certain, notwithstanding the apology which he had made to appease the impatient displeasure of Tressilian.  It was lost—­it might fall into wrong hands—­it would then certainly occasion a discovery of the whole intrigue in which he had been engaged; nor, indeed, did Wayland see much prospect of its remaining concealed, in any event.  He felt much hurt, besides, at Tressilian’s burst of impatience.

“Nay, if I am to be paid in this coin for services where my neck is concerned, it is time I should look to myself.  Here have I offended, for aught I know, to the death, the lord of this stately castle, whose word were as powerful to take away my life as the breath which speaks it to blow out a farthing candle.  And all this for a mad lady, and a melancholy gallant, who, on the loss of a four-nooked bit of paper, has his hand on his poignado, and swears death and fury!—­Then there is the Doctor and Varney.—­I will save myself from the whole mess of them.  Life is dearer than gold.  I will fly this instant, though I leave my reward behind me.”

These reflections naturally enough occurred to a mind like Wayland’s, who found himself engaged far deeper than he had expected in a train of mysterious and unintelligible intrigues, in which the actors seemed hardly to know their own course.  And yet, to do him justice, his personal fears were, in some degree, counterbalanced by his compassion for the deserted state of the lady.