Hugh felt the man's fingers wandering over his surcoat and mail, and when they came to the bonds which ill fastened his arms behind him, the prisoner exclaimed in quick pity:
"I will release you, Messer. You must be in sore pain to be so constrained in armour. By your favour! There, 'tis done."
The loosened cords fell to the floor, and Hugh was able cautiously to move his arms back into their normal position, strained joints creaking protestingly.
"I give you thanks, Messer," he said. "Are you French or Italian?"
"I am English."
A myriad lights danced in the darkness before Hugh's eyes.
"English? I—I, too, fair sir, am English."
"Then doth my pity for you grow, Messer," answered the ringing voice gravely. "'Twere doubly bad fortune that a fellow-countryman should come to this low estate. They have a saying in Constantinople that he who is sent to the Tower of Anemas comes forth a corpse."
Hugh reached out and gripped the stranger's shoulders.
"Your name?" he rasped betwixt gritted teeth.