"Ha, Magnificence, how pass the days?" he called. "'Tis Bartolommeo Caraducci asks. We have not met in many a long day."
"Doth the devil yet spare you, Bartolommeo?" replied a deep, ringing voice that sent a thrill up Hugh's spine. "How lonesome must be all the fiends!"
Bartolommeo chuckled.
"A rare spirit, by St. Bacchus! A rare spirit! We were talking of you but now. How you keep up I cannot see, fair sir. Never knew I one like you, and God knows I have served the devil over-long. But we have a change for you, a diversion, ay, a companion. How will it seem after—ha, 'tis seven years now, is it not?—ay, going on eight? I wish you joy of one another. There will be much to talk over. It may be—— But I talk too long. In with you, Messer Hugh."
He gave Hugh a push and the door slammed shut.
"Rest well, fair sirs. Bartolommeo will not forget you."
A roar of hoarse laughter, and footsteps retreating in the distance. Then—silence.
But gradually Hugh became conscious of a man's laboured breathing. In the pitch-darkness of the dungeon it was impossible to see the stranger, yet his presence was as palpable as though verified by touch. He stood a few feet distant, almost within reach, drawing in breaths in great, gusty sobs, uncannily speechless. At last Hugh could stand it no longer. Was the man, perchance, a lunatic, despite that resonant voice and quick reply to Bartolommeo? Was it Mocenigo's subtle purpose to subject him to the ravings of a madman, hoping thereby to wear down his spirit?
"Who are you?" he asked abruptly, scarce recognising his own voice as it rolled back and forth betwixt the stone walls of the dungeon. "Are you knight or common man?"
The stranger gasped. "You speak the lingua franca? Art not a Greek? My God, art really human? I forbore to speak when that demon left. I was afraid to. I was afraid it was but another of his tricks. But you are really there? Let me touch you, Messer. Ay, I can feel you. Armour? Art a knight! St. James, 'tis impossible to believe! Nay, but I wrong you foully thus to rejoice when you are brought down to this bitter captivity! Ha, fair sir, I cry your pardon. Prithee, believe I am nigh mad with joy at possessing human company. 'Tis years—I forget how long; that fiend told us; but I forget—since last I clasped a human hand. Ah, God, sweet Christ is my witness I have longed for this!"