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.