Nigel
Bruce amid these painful cogitations. He well knew no shade of dishonor
_could_ fall on him; he thought not one moment of his own fate, although
if the castle were taken he knew death awaited him, either by the
besieger's sword or the hangman's cord, for he would make no condition;
he thought only that this was well-nigh the last castle in his brother's
keeping, which, if lost, would in the present depressed state of his
affairs be indeed a fatal blow, and a still greater triumph to England.

These thoughts naturally engrossed his mind to the exclusion of all
imaginative whisperings, and therefore was it that he drew back the bolt
of a door which closed the passage, without any of those peculiar
feelings that at a less anxious time might have possessed him; for souls
less gifted than that of Nigel Bruce can seldom enter a spot hallowed by
tradition without the electric thrill which so strangely unites the
present with the past.

It was a chamber of moderate dimensions to which the oaken door admitted
him, hung with coarse and faded tapestry, which, disturbed by the wind,
disclosed an opening into another passage, through which he pursued his
way. In the apartment on which the dark and narrow passage ended,
however, his steps were irresistibly arrested. It was panelled with
black-oak, of which the floor also was composed, giving the whole an
aspect calculated to infect the most thoughtless spirit with gloom. Two
high and very narrow windows, the small panes of which were quite
incrusted with dust, were the only conductors of light, with the
exception of a loophole--for it could scarcely be dignified by the name
of casement--on the western side. Through this loophole the red light
of a declining winter sun sent its rays, which were caught and stayed on
what seemed at the distance an antique picture-frame. Wondering to
perceive a picture out of its place in the gallery, Nigel hastily
advanced towards it, pausing, however, on his way to examine, with some
surprise, one of the planks in the floor, which, instead of the
beautiful black polish which age had rather heightened than marred in
the rest, was rough and white, with all the appearance of having been
hewn and scraped by some sharp instrument.

It is curious to mark how trifling a thing will sometimes connect,
arrange, and render clear as day to the mind all that has before been
vague, imperfect, and indistinct. It is like the touch of lightning on
an electric