There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form of Wilfred of Aescendune.
"Let him see thee when he arises. The sight of this deathly place may slay him. He will awake as from sleep. Take this sponge--bathe well the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!"
A minute--no result. Another.
"Dog, hast thou deceived me and slain him? If so, thou shalt not escape."
"Patience," said the Jew.
A heavy sigh escaped the sleeper.
"Thank God, he lives," said the bishop.
"Where am I? Have I slept long?"
"With friends--all is well.
"Cover his face; now bear him out to the air."