ent. "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."

"I tell thee," said Lambourne, leading the way into the turnkey's
apartment, "thou art an ass. Go bolt the wicket on the stair, and
trouble not thy noddle about ghosts. Give me the wine stoup, man; I am
somewhat heated with chafing with yonder rascal."

While Lambourne drew a long draught from a pitcher of claret, which he
made use of without any cup, the warder went on, vindicating his own
belief in the supernatural.

"Thou hast been few