speaking the name with significant emphasis; and Gaston laughed and
tossed back his leonine head with a gesture of mingled pride and
impatience as he said:

"Tush, Brother! I scarce know how to prize my knighthood now that thou
dost not share it with me -- thou so far more truly knightly and worthy.
I had ever planned that we had been together in that as in all else. Why
wert thou not with me that day when we vanquished the navy of proud
Spain? The laurels are scarce worth the wearing that thou wearest not
with me."

For Gaston was now indeed a knight. He had fought beside the Prince in
the recent engagement at sea, when a splendid naval victory had been
obtained over the Spanish fleet. He had performed prodigies of valour on
that occasion, and had been instrumental in the taking of many rich
prizes. And when the royal party had returned to Windsor, Gaston had
been named, with several more youthful gentlemen, to receive knighthood
at the hands of the Prince of Wales. Whereupon Master Bernard de Brocas
had stood forward and told the story of the parentage of the twin
brothers, claiming kinship with them, and speaking in high praise of
Raymond, who, since the death of John, had been employed by his uncle in
a variety of small matters that used to be John's province to see to. In
every point the Gascon youth had shown aptitude and ability beyond the
average, and had won high praise from his clerical kinsman, who was more
the statesman than the parish priest.

Very warmly had the de Brocas brothers been welcomed by their kinsmen;
and as they laid no claim to any lands or revenues in the possession of
other members of the family, not the least jealousy or ill-will was
excited by their rise in social status. All that Gaston asked of the
King was liberty some day, when the hollow truce with France should be
broken, and when the King's matters were sufficiently settled to permit
of private enterprise amongst his own servants, to gather about him a
company of bold kindred spirits, and strive to wrest back from the
treacherous and rapacious Sieur de Navailles the ancient castle of Saut,
which by every law of right should belong to his own family.

The King listened graciously to this petition, and gave Gaston full
encouragement to hope to regain his fathers' lost inheritance. But of
Basildene no word was spoken then; for the shrewd Master Bernard had
warned Raymond that the time had not yet come to prosecute that claim --
and indeed the neglected old house, crumbling to the dust and environed
by an evil reputation which effectually kept all men away from it,
seemed scarce worth the struggle it would cost to wrest it from the
keeping of Peter Sanghurst.

This worthy, since his father's death, had entered upon a totally new
course of existence. He had appeared at Court, sumptuously dressed, and
with a fairly large following. He had ingratiated himself with the King
by a timely loan of gold (for the many drains upon Edward's resources
kept him always short of money for his household and family expenses),
and was playing the part of a wealthy and liberal man. It was whispered
of him, as it had been of his father, that he had some secret whereby to
fill his coffers with gold whenever they were empty, and this reputation
gave him a distinct prestige with his comrades and followers. He was not
accused of black magic, like his father. His secret was supposed to have
been inherited by him, not bought with the price of his soul. It
surrounded him with a faint halo of mystery, but it was mystery that did
him good rather than harm. The King himself took favourable notice of
one possessed of such a golden secret, and for the present the Sanghurst
was better left in undisturbed possession of his ill-gotten gains.

Raymond had learned the difficult lesson of patience, and accepted his
uncle's advice. It was the easier to be patient since he knew that Joan
was for the present safe from the persecutions of her hated suitor. Joan
had been summoned to go to her father almost immediately upon the death
of John de Brocas. He had sent for her to Woodcrych, and she had
travelled thither at once with the escort sent to fetch her.

Raymond had heard from her once since that time. In the letter she had
contrived to send him she had told him that her mother was dead, having
fallen a victim to the dreaded distemper she had fled to avoid, but
which had nevertheless seized her almost immediately upon her arrival at
her husband's house. He too had been stricken, but had recovered; and
his mind having been much affected by his illness and trouble, he had
resolved upon a pilgrimage to Rome, in which his daughter was to
accompany him. She did not know how long they would be absent from
England, and save for the separation from her true love, she was glad to
go. Her brother would return to the Court, and only she and her father
would take the journey. She had heard nothing all these weeks of the
dreaded foe, and hoped he might have passed for ever from her life.

And in this state matters stood with the brothers as the vessel bore
them through the tossing blue waves that bright May morning, every
plunge of the well-fitted war sloop bringing them nearer and nearer to
the well-known and well-loved harbour of Bordeaux.

Yet it was on no private errand that they were bound, though Gaston
could not approach the familiar shores of Gascony without thinking of
that long-cherished hope of his now taking so much more solid a shape.

The real object of this small expedition was, however, the relief of the
town of St. Jean d'Angely, belonging to the English King, which had been
blockaded for some time by the French monarch. The distressed
inhabitants had contrived to send word to Edward of their strait, and he
had despatched the Earl of Warwick with a small picked army to its relief.

The Gascon twins had been eager to join this small contingent, and had
volunteered for the service. Gaston was put in command of a band of fine
soldiers, and his brother took service with him.

This was the first time for several years that Raymond had been in arms,
for of late his avocations had been of a more peaceful nature. But he
possessed all the soldier instincts of his race, and by his brother's
side would go joyfully into battle again.

He did not know many of the knights and gentlemen serving in this small
expedition, nor did Gaston either, for that matter. It was too small an
undertaking to attract the flower of Edward's chivalry, and the Black
Death had made many gaps in the ranks of the comrades the boys had first
known when they had fought under the King's banner. But the satisfaction
of being together again made amends for all else. Indeed they scarce had
eyes for any but each other, and had so much to tell and to ask that the
voyage was all too short for them.

Amongst those on board Raymond had frequently noticed the figure of a
tall man always in full armour, and always wearing his visor down, so
that none might see his face. His armour was of fine workmanship, light
and strong, and seemed in no way to incommode him. There was no device
upon it, save some serpents cunningly inlaid upon the breastplate, and
the visor was richly chased and inlaid with black, so that the whole
effect was gloomy and almost sinister. Raymond had once or twice asked
the name of the Black Visor, as men called him, but none had been able
to tell him. It was supposed that he was under some vow -- a not very
uncommon thing in the days of chivalry -- and that he might not remove
his visor until he had performed some gallant feat of arms.

Sometimes it had seemed to the youth as though the dark eyes looking out
through the holes in that black covering were fixed more frequently upon
himself than upon any one else; and if he caught full for a moment the
fiery gleam, he would wonder for the instant it lasted where and when he
had seen those eyes before. But his mind was not in any sense of the
word concerned with the Black Visor, and it was only now and then he
gave him a passing thought.

And now the good vessel was slipping through the still waters of the
magnificent harbour of Bordeaux. The deck was all alive with the bustle
of speedy landing, and the Gascon brothers were scanning the familiar
landmarks and listening with delight to the old familiar tongue.

Familiar faces there were none to be seen, it is true. The boys were too
much of foreigners now to have many old friends in the queenly city. But
the whole place was homelike to them, and would be so to their lives'
ends. Moreover, they hoped ere they took ship again to have time and
opportunity to revisit old haunts and see their foster parents and the
good priest once more; but for the present their steps were turned
northward towards the gallant little beleaguered town which had appealed
to the English King for aid.

A few days were spent at Bordeaux collecting provisions for the town,
and mustering the reinforcements which the loyal city was always ready
and eager to supply in answer to any demand on the part of the Roy Outremer.

The French King had died the previous year, and his son John, formerly
Duke of Normandy, was now upon the throne; but the situation between the
two nations had by no means changed, and indeed the bitter feeling
between them was rather increased than diminished by the many petty
breaches of faith on one side or another, of which this siege of St.
Jean d'Angely was an example.

On the whole the onus of breaking the truce rested more with the French
than the English. But a mere truce, where no real peace is looked for on
either side, is but an unsatisfactory state of affairs at best; and
although both countries were sufficiently exhausted by recent wars and
the ravages of the plague to desire the interlude prolonged, yet
hostilities of one kind or another never really ceased, and the
struggles between the rival lords of Brittany and their heroic wives
always kept the flame of war smouldering.

Gascony as a whole was always loyal to the English cause, and Bordeaux
too well knew what she owed to the English trade ever to be backward
when called upon by the English King. Speedily a fine band of soldiers
was assembled, and at dawn one day the march northward was commenced.

The little army mustered some five thousand men, all well fed and in
capital condition for the march. Raymond rode by his brother's side well
in the van, and he noticed presently, amongst the new recruits who had
joined them, another man of very tall stature, who also wore a black
visor over his face. He was plainly a friend to the unknown knight (if
knight he were) who had sailed in their vessel, for they rode side by
side deep in talk; and behind them, in close and regular array, rode a
number of their immediate followers, all wearing a black tuft in their
steel caps and a black band round their arm.

However, there was nothing very noteworthy in this. Many men had
followers marked by some distinctive badge, and the sombre little
contingent excited small notice. They all looked remarkably fine
soldiers, and appeared to be under excellent discipline. More than that
was not asked of any man, and the Gascons were well known to be amongst
the best soldiers of the day.

The early start and the long daylight enabled the gallant little band to
push on in the one day to the banks of the Charente, and within a few
miles of St. Jean itself. There, however, a halt was called, for the
French were in a remarkably good position, and it was necessary to take
counsel how they might best be attacked.

In the first place there was the river to be crossed, and the one bridge
was in the hands of the enemy, who had fortified it, and would be able
to hold it against great odds. They were superior in numbers to their
assailants, and probably knew their advantage.

Gaston, who well understood the French nature, was the first to make a
likely suggestion.

"Let us appear to retreat," he said. "They will then see our small
numbers, and believe that we are flying through fear of them. Doubtless
they will at once rush out to pursue and attack us, and after we have
drawn them from their strong position, we can turn again upon them and
slay them, or drive them into the river."

This suggestion was received with great favour, and it was decided to
act upon it that very day. There were still several hours of daylight
before them, and the men, who had had wine and bread distributed to
them, were full of eagerness for the fray.

The French, who were quite aware of the strength of their own position,
and very confident of ultimate victory, were narrowly watching the
movements of the English, whose approach had been for some time expected
by them. They were certain that they could easily withstand the
onslaught of the whole body, if these were bold enough to attack, and
they well knew how terribly thinned would the English ranks become
before they could hope to cross the bridge and march upon the main body
of the French army encamped before the town.

Great, then, was the exultation of the French when they saw how much
terror they had inspired in the heart of the foe. They were eagerly
observing their movements; they saw that a council had been called
amongst the chiefs, and that deliberations had been entered into by
them. But so valiant were the English in fight, and so many were the
victories they had obtained with numbers far inferior to those of the
foe, that there was a natural sense of uncertainty as to the result of a
battle, even when all the chances of the war seemed to be against the
foreign foe. But when the trumpets actually sounded the retreat, and
they saw the whole body moving slowly away, then indeed did they feel
that triumph was near, and a great shout of derision and anger rose up
in the still evening air.

"To horse, men, and after them!" was the word given, and a cry of fierce
joy went up from the whole army. "My Lords of England, you will not get
off in that way. You have come hither by your own will; you shall not
leave until you have paid your scot."

No great order was observed as the Frenchmen sprang to horse and
galloped across the bridge, and so after the retreating foe. Every man
was eager to bear his share in the discomfiture of the English
contingent, and hardly staying to arm themselves fully, the eager,
hot-headed French soldiers, horse and foot, swung along in any sort of
order, only eager to cut to pieces the flower of the English chivalry
(as their leaders had dubbed this little band), and inflict a dark stain
upon the honour of Edward's brilliant arms.

In the ranks of this same English contingent, now in rapid and orderly
retreat, there was to the full as much exultation and lust of battle as
in the hearts of their pursuing foes. Every man grasped his weapon and
set his teeth firmly, the footmen marching steadily onwards at a rapid
and swinging pace, whilst the horsemen, who brought up the rear -- for
they were to be the first to charge when the trumpet sounded the advance
-- kept turning their heads to watch the movement of the foe, and sent
up a brief huzzah as they saw that their ruse had proved successful, and
that their foes were coming fast after them.

"Keep thou by my side in the battle today, Raymond," said Gaston, as he
looked to the temper of his weapons and glanced backwards over his
shoulder. "Thou hast been something more familiar with the pen than the
sword of late -- and thy faithful esquire likewise. Fight, then, by my
side, and together we will meet and overcome the foe. They will fight
like wolves, I doubt not, for they will be bitterly wrathful when they
see the trick we have played upon them. Wherefore quit not my side, be
the fighting never so hot, for I would have thee ever with me."

"I wish for nothing better for myself," answered Raymond, with a fond
proud glance at the stalwart Gaston, who now towered a full head taller
above him, and was a very king amongst men.

He was mounted on a fine black war horse, who had carried his master
victoriously through many charges before today. Raymond's horse was much
lighter in build, a wiry little barb with a distinct Arab strain,
fearless in battle, and fleet as the wind, but without the weight or
solidity of Gaston's noble charger. Indeed, Gaston had found some fault
with the creature's lack of weight for withstanding the onslaught of
cavalry charge; but he suited Raymond so well in other ways that the
latter had declined to make any change, and told his brother smilingly
that his great Lucifer had weight and strength for both.

Scarcely had Gaston given this charge to his brother before the trumpets
sounded a new note, and at once the compact little body of horse and
foot halted, wheeled round, and put themselves in position for the
advance. Another blast from those same trumpets, given with all the
verve and joyousness of coming victory, and the horses of their own
accord sprang forward to the attack. Then the straggling and dismayed
body of Frenchmen who had been pushing on in advance of their fellows to
fall upon the flying English, found themselves opposed to one of those
magnificent cavalry charges which made the glory and the terror of the
English arms throughout the reign of the great Edward.

Vainly trying to rally themselves, and with shouts of "St. Dennis!" "St.
Dennis!" the Frenchmen rushed upon their foes; and the detachments from
behind coming up quickly, the engagement became general at once, and was
most hotly contested on both sides.

Gaston was one of the foremost to charge into the ranks of the French,
and singling out the tallest and strongest adversary he could see, rode
full upon him, and was quickly engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand
conflict. Raymond was close beside him, and soon found himself engaged
in parrying the thrusts of several foes. But Roger was quickly at his
side, taking his own share of hard blows; and as the foot and horse from
behind pressed on after the impetuous leaders, and more and more
detachments from the French army came up to assist their comrades, the
melee became very thick, and in the crush it was impossible to see what
was happening except just in front, and to avoid the blows levelled at
him was all that Raymond was able to think of for many long minutes --
minutes that seemed more like hours.

When the press became a little less thick about him, Raymond looked
round for his brother, but could not see him. A body of riders, moving
in a compact wedge, had forced themselves in between himself and Gaston.
He saw the white plume in his brother's helmet waving at some distance
away to the left, but when he tried to rein in his horse and reach him,
he still found himself surrounded by the same phalanx of mounted
soldiers, who kept pressing him by sheer weight on and on away to the
right, though the tide of battle was most distinctly rolling to the
left. The French were flying promiscuously back to their lines, and the
English soldiers were in hot pursuit.

Raymond was no longer amid foes. He had long since ceased to have to use
his sword either for attack or defence, but he could not check the
headlong pace of his mettlesome little barb, nor could he by any
exertion of strength turn the creature's head in any other direction. As
he was in the midst of those he looked upon as friends, he had no
uneasiness as to his own position, even though entirely separated from
Gaston and Roger, who generally kept close at his side. He was so little
used of late to the manoeuvres of war, that he fancied this headlong
gallop, in which he was taking an involuntary part, might be the result
of military tactics, and that he should see its use presently.

But as he and his comrades flew over the ground, and the din of the
battle died away in his ears, and the last of the evening sunlight faded
from the sky, a strange sense of coming ill fell upon Raymond's spirit.
Again he made a most resolute and determined effort to check the fiery
little creature he rode, who seemed as if his feet were furnished with
wings, so fast he spurned the ground beneath his hoofs.

Then for the first time the youth found that this mad pace was caused by
regular goading from the silent riders who surrounded him. Turning in
his saddle he saw that these men were one and all engaged in pricking
and spurring on the impetuous little steed; and as he cast a keen and
searching look at these strange riders, he saw that they all wore in
their steel caps the black tuft of the followers of the Black Visor and
his sable-coated companion, and that these two leaders rode themselves a
little distance behind.

Greatly astonished at the strange thing that was befalling him, yet not,
so far, alarmed for his personal safety, Raymond drew his sword and
looked steadily round at the ring of men surrounding him.

"Cease to interfere with my horse, gentlemen," he said, in stern though
courteous accents. "It may be your pleasure thus to ride away from the
battle, but it is not mine; and I will ask of you to let me take my way
whilst you take yours. Why you desire my company I know not, but I do
not longer desire yours; wherefore forbear!"

Not a word or a sign was vouchsafed him in answer; but as he attempted
to rein back his panting horse, now fairly exhausted with the struggle
between the conflicting wills of so many persons, the dark silent riders
continued to urge him forward with open blows and pricks from sword
point, till, as he saw that his words were still unheeded, a dangerous
glitter shone in Raymond's eyes.

"Have a care how you molest me, gentlemen!" he said, in clear, ringing
tones. "Ye are carrying a jest (if jest it be meant for) a little too
far. The next who dares to touch my horse must defend himself from my
sword."

And then a sudden change came over the bearing of his companions. A
dozen swords sprang from their scabbards. A score of harsh voices
replied to these words in fierce accents of defiance. One -- two --
three heavy blows fell upon his head; and though he set his teeth and
wheeled about to meet and grapple with his foes, he felt from the first
moment that he had no chance whatever against such numbers, and that the
only thing to do was to sell his life as dearly as he could.

There was no time to ask or even to wonder at the meaning of this
mysterious attack. All he could do was to strive to shield his head from
the blows that rained upon him, and breathe a prayer for succour in the
midst of his urgent need.

And then he heard a voice speaking in accents of authority: where had he
heard that voice before?

"Hold, men! have I not warned you to do him no hurt? Kill him not, but
take him alive."

That was the last thing Raymond remembered. His next sensation was of
falling and strangulation. Then a blackness swam before his eyes, and
sense and memory alike fled.



CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE HANDS OF HIS FOE.


How long that blackness and darkness lasted Raymond never really knew.
It seemed to him that he awoke from it at occasional long intervals,
always to find himself dreaming of rapid motion, as though he were being
transported through the air with considerable speed. But there was no
means of telling in what direction he moved, nor in what company. His
senses were clouded and dull. He did not know what was real and what
part of a dream. He had no recollection of any of the events immediately
preceding this sudden and extraordinary journey, and after a brief
period of bewilderment would sink back into the black abyss of
unconsciousness from which he had been roused for a few moments.

At last, after what seemed to him an enormous interval -- for he knew
not whether hours, days, or even years had gone by whilst he had
remained in this state of unconscious apathy, he slowly opened his eyes,
to find that the black darkness had given place to a faint murky light,
and that he was no longer being carried rapidly onwards, but was lying
still upon a heap of straw in some dim place, the outlines of which only
became gradually visible to him.

Raymond was very weak, and weakness exercises a calming and numbing
effect upon the senses. He felt no alarm at finding himself in this
strange place, but after gazing about him without either recollection or
comprehension, he turned round upon his bed of straw, which was by no
means the worst resting place he had known in his wanderings, and
quickly fell into a sound sleep.

When he awoke some hours later, the place was lighter than it had been,
for a ray of sunlight had penetrated through the loophole high above his
head, and illuminated with tolerable brightness the whole of the dim
retreat in which he found himself. Raymond raised himself upon his elbow
and looked wonderingly around him.

"What in the name of all the Holy Saints has befallen me?" he
questioned, speaking half aloud in the deep stillness, glad to break the
oppressive silence, if it were only by the sound of his own voice. "I
feel as though a leaden weight were pressing down my limbs, and my head
is throbbing as though a hammer were beating inside it. I can scarce
frame my thoughts as I will. What was I doing last, before this strange
thing befell me?"

He put his hand to his head and strove to think; but for a time memory
eluded him, and his bewilderment grew painfully upon him. Then he espied
a pitcher of water and some coarse food set not far away, and he rose
with some little difficulty and dragged his stiffened limbs across the
stone floor till he reached the spot where this provision stood.

"Sure, this be something of the prisoner's fare," he said, as he raised
the pitcher to his lips; "yet I will refresh myself as best I may.
Perchance I shall then regain my scattered senses and better understand
what has befallen me."

He ate and drank slowly, and it was as he hoped. The nourishment he
sorely needed helped to dispel the clouds of weakness and faintness
which had hindered the working of his mind before, and a ray of light
penetrated the mists about him.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have it now! We were in battle together -- Gaston
and I rode side by side. I recollect it all now. We were separated in
the press, and I was carried off by the followers of the Black Visor.
Strange! He was in our ranks. He is a friend, and not a foe. How came
it, then, that his men-at-arms made such an error as to set upon me? Was
it an error? Did I not hear him, or his huge companion, give some order
for my capture to his men before their blades struck me down? It is
passing strange. I comprehend it not. But Gaston will be here anon to
make all right. There must be some strange error. Sure I must have been
mistaken for some other man."

Raymond was not exactly uneasy, though a little bewildered and disturbed
in mind by the strangeness of the adventure. It seemed certain to him
that there must have been some mistake. That he was at present a
prisoner could not be doubted, from the nature of the place in which he
was shut up, and the silence and gloom about him; but unless he had been
abandoned by his first captors, and had fallen into the hands of the
French, he believed that his captivity would speedily come to an end
when the mistake concerning his identity was explained. If indeed he
were in the power of some French lord, there might be a little longer
delay, as a ransom would no doubt have to be found for him ere he could
be released. But then Gaston was at liberty, and Gaston had now powerful
friends and no mean share in some of the prizes which had been taken by
sea and land. He would quickly accomplish his brother's deliverance when
once he heard of his captivity; and there would be no difficulty in
sending him a message, as his captor's great desire would doubtless be
to obtain as large a ransom as he was able to extort.

"They had done better had they tried to seize upon Gaston himself," said
Raymond, with a half smile. "He would have been a prize better worth the
taking. But possibly he would have proved too redoubtable a foe.
Methinks my arm has somewhat lost its strength or cunning, else should I
scarce have fallen so easy a prey. I ought to have striven harder to
have kept by Gaston's side; but I know not now how we came to be
separated. And Roger, too, who has ever been at my side in all times of
strife and danger, how came he to be sundered from me likewise? It must
have been done by the fellows who bore me off -- the followers of the
Black Visor. Strange, very strange! I know not what to think of it. But
when next my jailer comes he will doubtless tell me where I am and what
is desired of me."

The chances of war were so uncertain, and the captive of one day so
often became the victor of the next, that Raymond, who for all his
fragile look possessed a large fund of cool courage, did not feel
greatly disturbed by the ill-chance that had befallen him. Many French
knights were most chivalrous and courteous to their prisoners; some even
permitted them to go out on parole to collect their own ransoms,
trusting to their word of honour to return if they were unable to obtain
the stipulated sum. The English cause had many friends amongst the
French nobility, and friendships as well as enmities had resulted from
the English occupation of such large tracts of France.

So Raymond resolved to make the best of his incarceration whilst it
lasted, trusting that some happy accident would soon set him at large
again. With such a brother as Gaston on the outside of his prison wall,
it would be foolish to give way to despondency.

He looked curiously about at the cave-like place in which he found
himself. It appeared to be a natural chamber formed in the living rock.
It received a certain share of air and light from a long narrow loophole
high up overhead, and the place was tolerably fresh and dry, though its
proportions were by no means large. Still it was lofty, and it was wide
enough to admit of a certain but limited amount of exercise to its occupant.

Raymond found that he could make five paces along one side of it and
four along the other. Except the heap of straw, upon which he had been
laid, there was no plenishing of any kind to the cell. However, as it
was probably only a temporary resting place, this mattered the less.
Raymond had been worse lodged during some of his wanderings before now,
and for the two years that he had lived amongst the Cistercian Brothers,
he had scarcely been more luxuriously treated. His cell there had been
narrower than this place, his fare no less coarse than that he had just
partaken of, and his pallet bed scarce so comfortable as this truss of
straw.

"Father Paul often lay for weeks upon the bare stone floor," mused
Raymond, as he sat down again upon his bed. "Sure I need not grumble
that I have such a couch as this."

He was very stiff and bruised, as he found on attempting to move about,
but he had no actual wounds, and no bones were broken. His light strong
armour had protected him, or else his foes had been striving to vanquish
without seriously hurting him. He could feel that his head had been a
good deal battered about, for any consecutive thought tired him; but it
was something to have come off without worse injury, and sleep would
restore him quickly to his wonted strength.

He lay down upon the straw presently, and again he slept soundly and
peacefully. He woke up many hours later greatly refreshed, aroused by
some sound from the outside of his prison. The light had completely
faded from the loophole. The place was in pitchy darkness. There is
something a little terrible in black oppressive darkness -- the darkness
which may almost be felt; and Raymond was not sorry, since he had
awakened, to hear the sound of grating bolts, and then the slow creaking
of a heavy door upon its hinges.

A faint glimmer of light stole into the cell, and Raymund marked the
entrance of a tall dark figure habited like a monk, the cowl drawn so
far over the face as entirely to conceal the features. However, the
ecclesiastical habit was something of a comfort to Raymond, who had
spent so much of his time amongst monks, and he rose to his feet with a
respectful salutation in French.

The monk stepped within the cell, and drew the door behind him, turning
the heavy key in the lock. The small lantern he carried with him gave
only a very feeble light; but it was better than nothing, and enabled
Raymond to see the outline of the tall form, which looked almost
gigantic in the full religious habit.

"Welcome, Holy Father," said Raymond, still speaking in French. "Right
glad am I to look upon face of man again. I prithee tell me where I am,
and into whose hands I have fallen; for methinks there is some mistake
in the matter, and that they take me for one whom I am not."

"They take thee for one Raymond de Brocas, who lays claim, in thine own
or thy brother's person, to Basildene in England and Orthez and Saut in
Gascony," answered the monk, who spoke slowly in English and in a
strangely-muffled voice. "If thou be not he, say so, and prove it
without loss of time; for evil is purposed to Raymond de Brocas, and it
were a pity it should fall upon the wrong head."

A sudden shiver ran through Raymond's frame. Was there not something
familiar in the muffled sound of that English voice? was there not
something in the words and tone that sounded like a cruel sneer? Was it
his fancy that beneath the long habit of the monk he caught the glimpse
of some shining weapon? Was this some terrible dream come to his
disordered brain? Was he the victim of an illusion? or did this tall,
shadowy figure stand indeed before him?

For a moment Raymond's head seemed to swim, and then his nerves steadied
themselves, and he wondered if he might not be disquieting himself in
vain. Possibly, after all, this might be a holy man -- one who would
stand his friend in the future.

"Thou art English?" he asked quickly; "and if English, surely a friend
to thy countrymen?"

"I am English truly," was the low-toned answer, "and I am here to advise
thee for thy good."

"I thank thee for that at least. I will follow thy counsel, if I may
with honour."

It seemed as though a low laugh forced its way from under the heavy
cowl. The monk drew one step nearer.

"Thou hadst better not trouble thy head about honour. What good will thy
honour be to thee if they tear thee piecemeal limb from limb, or roast
thee to death over a slow fire, or rack thee till thy bones start from
their sockets? Let thy honour go to the winds, foolish boy, and think
only how thou mayest save thy skin. There be those around and about thee
who will have no mercy so long as thou provest obdurate. Bethink thee
well how thou strivest against them, for thou knowest little what may
well befall thee in their hands."

The blood seemed to run cold in Raymond's veins as he heard these
terrible words, spoken with a cool deliberation which did nothing
detract from their dread significance. Who was it who once -- nay, many
times in bygone years -- had threatened him with just that cool,
deliberate emphasis, seeming to gloat over the dark threats uttered, as
though they were to him full of a deep and cruel joy?

It seemed to the youth as though he were in the midst of some dark and
horrible dream from which he must speedily awake. He passed his hand
fiercely across his eyes and made a quick step towards the monk.

"Who and what art thou?" he asked, in stifled accents, for it seemed as
though a hideous oppression was upon him, and he scarce knew the sound
of his own voice; and then, with a harsh, grating laugh, the tall figure
recoiled a pace, and flung the cowl from his head, and with an
exclamation of astonishment and dismay Raymond recognized his implacable
foe and rival, Peter Sanghurst, whom last he had beheld within the walls
of Basildene.

"Thou here!" he exclaimed, and moved back as far as the narrow limits of
the cell would permit, as though from the presence of some noxious beast.

Peter Sanghurst folded his arms and gazed upon his youthful rival with a
gleam of cool, vindictive triumph in his cruel eyes that might well send
a thrill of chill horror through the lad's slight frame. When he spoke
it was with the satisfaction of one who gloats over a victim utterly and
entirely in his power.

"Ay, truly I am here; and thou art mine, body and soul, to do with what
I will; none caring what befalls thee, none to interpose between thee
and me. I have waited long for this hour, but I have not waited in vain.
I can read the future. I knew that one day thou wouldst be in my hands
-- that I might do my pleasure upon thee, whatsoever that pleasure might
be. Knowing that, I have been content to wait; only every day the debt
has been mounting up. Every time that thou, rash youth, hast dared to
try to thwart me, hast dared to strive to stand between me and the
object of my desires, a new score has been written down in the record I
have long kept against thee. Now the day of reckoning has come, and thou
wilt find the reckoning a heavy one. But thou shalt pay it -- every jot
and tittle shalt thou pay. Thou shalt not escape from my power until
thou hast paid the uttermost farthing."

The man's lips parted in a hideous smile which showed his white teeth,
sharp and pointed like the fangs of a wolf. Raymond felt his courage
rise with the magnitude of his peril. That some unspeakably terrible
doom was designed for him he could not doubt. The malignity and cruelty
of his foe were too well understood; but at least if he must suffer, he
would suffer in silence. His enemy should not have the satisfaction of
wringing from him one cry for mercy. He would die a thousand times
sooner than sue to him. He thought of Joan -- realizing that for her
sake he should be called upon, in some sort, to bear this suffering; and
even the bare thought sent a thrill of ecstasy through him. Any death
that was died for her would be sweet. And might not his be instrumental
in ridding her for ever of her hateful foe? Would not Gaston raise
heaven and earth to discover his brother? Surely he would, sooner or
later, find out what had befallen him; and then might Peter Sanghurst
strive in vain to flee from the vengeance he had courted: he would
assuredly fall by Gaston's hand, tracked down even to the ends of the earth.

Peter Sanghurst, his eyes fixed steadily on the face of his victim,
hoping to enjoy by anticipation his agonies of terror, saw only a gleam
of resolution and even of joy pass across his face, and he gnashed his
teeth in sudden rage at finding himself unable to dominate the spirit of
the youth, as he meant shortly to rack his body.

"Thou thinkest still to defy me, mad boy?" he asked. "Thou thinkest that
thy brother will come to thine aid? Let him try to trace thee if he can!
I defy him ever to learn where thou art. Wouldst know it thyself? Then
thou shalt do so, and thou wilt see thy case lost indeed. Thou art in
that Castle of Saut that thou wouldest fain call thine own -- that
castle which has never yet been taken by foe from without, and never
will be yet, so utterly impregnable is its position. Thou art in the
hands of the Lord of Navailles, who has his own score to settle with
thee, and who will not let thee go till thou hast resigned in thy
brother's name and thine own every one of those bold claims which, as he
has heard, have been made to the Roy Outremer by one or both of you. Now
doth thy spirit quail? now dost thou hope for succour from without? Bid
adieu to all such fond and idle hopes. Thou art here utterly alone, no
man knowing what has befallen thee. Thou art in the hands of thy two
bitterest foes, men who are known and renowned for their cruelty and
their evil deeds -- men who would crush to death a hundred such as thou
who dared to strive to bar their way. Now what sayest thou? how about
that boasted honour of thine? Thou hadst best hear reason ere thou hast
provoked thy foes too far, and make for thyself the best terms that thou
canst. Thou mayest yet save thyself something if thou wilt hear reason."

Raymond's face was set like a flint. He had no power to rid himself of
the presence of his foe, but yield one inch to persuasion or threat he
was resolved not to do. For one thing, his distrust of this man was so
great that he doubted if any concessions made by him would be of the
smallest value in obtaining him his release; for another, his pride rose
up in arms against yielding anything to fear that he would not yield