asked, with as much eloquence as human lips ever framed, to be allowed to seek out his mistress; but he was perfectly trained, and he understood at a glance that the time for his search of her had not yet come. As Erceldoune descended the steep incline of rock-steps, he glanced up at the lancet window at which yesterday he had seen the woman who was the single thought and idol of his life; she was not there. Though he knew nothing of it, her prison-chamber had been changed for one in which there was no casement—one to which light and air only strayed through by a score of circular holes pierced in the stonework, high above the reach of her gaze; a chamber on which no eyes could look, from which no cries could be heard. His heart sank at the dark vacancy which was alone seen through the bars, whence a few hours before her eyes had dwelt on him from which she had watched him all through the length of the previous day. It was bitter work so to rein in his impulse, that he did not rush blindly into the den where she was hidden, and see what a sure shot and a merciless blow could do to free her. He choked the longing down as best he could; he knew there were eighty men there who would swing the ponderous gates to on him, and shut in with him for ever every chance
