“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.”