"'Twas so I deemed it," returned Sir James. "There is naught to answer. You know me by now, Bartolommeo, and you know, too, that if you have me here, no less have I that which you seek here."
He touched his head.
"So you have, so you have," Bartolommeo agreed cheerfully. "Ay, and so hath the good youth, your son. 'Tis a tender morsel this sweet chit, Sir James, not used to dungeon fare or the torments of the rack. Mayhap, you would prefer to save him from the torment."
"I would rather he were torn limb from limb than that the secret you seek were imparted to your masters," replied Sir James shortly. "But an you tortured him you would gain naught. You know this, knave, so why clamour uselessly? 'Tis a false scent."
Bartolommeo chuckled again.
"Bravely answered. 'Tis as I expected. Well, Messers, we are busy in the world above, and we may not attend to you as your deserts warrant. But bide in patience. We shall yet give you good entertainment."
It was two weeks before he appeared again. They were weeks of the same dreary routine, the same conscientious exercise, the same utter silence save for what the prisoners said to one another. Yet Hugh did not find it so wearing as he had feared it might be. There was so much to tell his father, there was so much for his father to tell him, that the hours passed rapidly. The only times when his courage failed him were in the night whilst Sir James slept and he conned over Helena's threats and the danger in which Edith might stand. He wondered often if Edith thought of him, if his comrades had any idea of what had become of him, if any one still cared for him or missed him or strove for his release. One night he walked the dungeon until dawn.
The next morning Bartolommeo bustled in.
"I give you greeting, fair lords," the ruffian hailed them jovially. "We must part for a time. I am engaged upon other duties, the import of which I may not tell you. Ha, ha, ha! But I have a choice varlet to take my place. He will watch over you like a mother—ay, like a dam over its kid. Belike, you will regret Bartolommeo even so. Come within, Messer Ranulphio!"
A slender, hairy, little man stole into the dungeon, rubbing his hands together with a certain evil joyousness. His face bristled with a tangled beard, through which stared the sallow skin, and his eyes were very sharp. Hugh started at sight of him. He seemed vaguely familiar, uncannily suggestive of another personality. But there could be no mistake about the wickedness with which he eyed the prisoners.