The Assistant advanced, until he came to the door of a cell which was closed, and which he knew from that circumstance was occupied, and unlocking it, stepped within.  He stopped, and throwing around the light from the lantern, beheld the form of the soldier extended on some straw spread in a corner, and apparently asleep.  Philip was indeed in a profound slumber.  Relieved from the painful incumbrance of the irons which had prevented his lying down, and kept him consequently in a constrained posture, he was enjoying a luxury hard to be realized except by one in a condition as wretched as his own.  Spikeman threw the light full upon his face, but it failed to awaken him.  He only smiled, and muttering something indistinctly, turned upon his pallet, the irons on his wrists clanking as he moved.  The Assistant stood looking at him awhile, and then pronounced his name, at first in a low tone, and afterwards louder.  Even this did not banish sleep, and Spikeman was obliged to shake him by the shoulder before he could be aroused.  It was then the soldier, without opening his eyes, demanded, drowsily, what was the matter.  “You waked me, Bars,” he said, “from such a grand dream.  I wish you would let me alone.”

“Arouse thyself and look up,” said the Assistant.  “It is not the jailer, but a friend, who desires thy good.”

“It is Master Spikeman,” said the soldier, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, “but I wish you had not disturbed my dream.  I thought I was free again.”

“I came to restore to thee that liberty whereof thou wert only dreaming.”

The soldier, now thoroughly awake, got upon his feet as quickly as his swollen ankles and the manacles on his wrists would permit.

“Then,” said Philip, “all the world hath not deserted me.”

“Strange that such a thought could enter thy mind.  Who was it, at thy trial, when the fierce Dudley would have silenced thee, demanded that thou shouldst be heard?  To whom thinkest thou is owing thy release from thy heaviest chains?”

“I was blind,” said the soldier, apologetically, “and this weary prison must have weakened my brain.  But you came to free me.  Let us leave this dismal place.”

“I wish it were possible to take thee with me, but that cannot be.  Yet will I so order things that thou mayest be far away and in safety before the dawn.”

“Show me the way; undo these handcuffs, and I will be your bondman forever.  But wherefore,” inquired Joy, as if some sudden suspicion sprung up in his mind, “do you take this trouble and risk on my account?”

“Do I not know that the villains, thine accusers, lied?  Should I not feel an interest in a brave man unjustly condemned by the artful Winthrop?  Have no suspicion of me, Philip,” said Spikeman, in a tone as if he were grieved at the thought.

“I entreat your pardon, and will allow of none,” answered the soldier, and his frank face abundantly confirmed the truth of his declaration.  “But how am I to escape?”