“Not when the alternative is a bitter death?”

“No.”

“Thy constancy will be tried.  We have borne with thee full long.  At next full moon thou wilt have had a year’s reprieve.  Thou must prepare to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or die.”

“My choice is made.”

“Thy time shall come at the close of the year.  Go.”

And Hubert was led away.

And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained by what may be called a miraculous interposition.

It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the yet more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at once he heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.

Who could it be?  The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally slept at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive’s nightly rest.  The door opened, and—­He beheld his father!

Yes, his father:  haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of another world over his worn features.

“Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and to bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man’s extremity is His opportunity.”

“Art thou really my father?”

And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished.  It was of God’s appointment, that vision, given to confirm the faith and hope of one of His children.  Such was Hubert’s belief {30}.

It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern climes.  But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth; and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

“Shall I ever see my native land again?”

It seemed impossible, but “hope springs eternal in the human breast.”  All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of alarm or anguish.  Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which he knew enough of their language to interpret—­the palace was in flames.

“Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?”

The doubt was soon solved.  Hasty feet entered the courtyard without.  The doors were opened one after another—­

“Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!”

The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and courts to the very front of the burning pile—­blazing pile, we should say.  There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre Eastern beauty—­cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires, but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its aspect.