Still there was the longing, the craving, the loneliness.  Day after day, night after night went by and the end seemed no nearer.  Awake or asleep, he dreamed of her, his heart and mind always full of that one rich blessing,—­her love.  At times he was mad with the desire to know what she was doing, what she was thinking and what was being done for her down there in that busy world.  Lying on his pallet, sitting in the narrow window, pacing the halls or wandering about the cold courtyards, he thought always of her, hoping and despairing with equal fervor.  The one great question that made his imprisonment, his inactivity so irksome was:  Was he to possess the treasure he longed so much to call his own?  In those tantalizing moments of despair he felt that if he were free and near her he could win the fight against all odds.  As it was, he knew not what mischief was working against his chances in the world from which he was barred.

The prior was kind to him; everything that could be done to provide comfort where comfort was a stranger was employed in his behalf.

He lived well—­until his appetite deserted him; he had no questions try answer, for no one asked why he was there; he had no danger to fear, for no foe knew where he lived.  From the city came the promise of ultimate escape; verbal messages from those who loved him; news of the world,—­all at long intervals, however.  Quinnox’s visits were like sunbeams to him.  The dashing captain came only at night and in disguise.  He bore verbal messages, a wise precaution against mishap.  Not once did he bring a word of love from the Princess, an omission which caused the fugitive deep misery until a ray of intelligence showed him that she could not give to Quinnox the speeches from her heart, proud woman that she was.

Anguish sent words of cheer, with commands to be patient.  He never failed to tell him, through Quinnox, that he was doing all in his power to find the real murderer and that he had the secret co-operation of the old police captain.  Of course, the hidden man heard of the reward and the frenzied search prosecuted by both principalities.  He laughed hysterically over the deception that was being practiced by the blue-eyed, slender woman who held the key to the situation in her keeping.

It was not until the night of the eighteenth of November that Quinnox confirmed his fears by telling him of the conditions imposed by Prince Bolaroz.  For some reason the young officer had deceived Lorry in regard to the all-important matter.  The American repeatedly had begged for information about the fatal twentieth, but on all previous occasions his visitor doggedly maintained a show of ignorance, vowing that he knew nothing of the circumstances Finally Lorry, completely out of patience and determined to know the true state of affairs, soundly upbraided him and sent word to the Princess that if she did not acquaint him with the inside facts he would leave the monastery