Like one in a dream, the young man moved towards the entrance of the low stone building which his acquaintance had indicated, and accosted a Moor who stood before the door.
“I am servant to Paolo, a Majorcan merchant,” he said, “who is permitted to visit the prisoners. Will the King of his grace permit me entrance?” and he dropped a purse into the warder’s hand as he spoke.
“Well, may be, if you leave your pack behind you. Who knows what it may contain?”
“Willingly, so I may take these few dried fruits to my compatriots.”
The warder sullenly unlocked the door, and ushered the young merchant into a small low room, with no furniture save a few sheepskins thrown on the floor. On one of these, in a corner, lay a figure, worn and wasted, and dressed in a torn and ragged coat of the commonest serge. His eyes were closed as if asleep, and only the delicate outline of the features, and the fair hair, still tended more or less carefully, bore any resemblance to the Infante Fernando.
“Wake!—rouse up!” said the Moor with a rough push. “House up, slave!—here’s a visitor for you.”
The prisoner opened his large blue eyes and looked up languidly.
“Just a draught of water,” he said, faintly, “for my lips are parched with this fever.”
“My prince!—oh, my prince! My lord, my lord!—oh, wretched day, that I should see this! Curses on the ruffians. Oh, my dear master!” and down dropped the young merchant on his knees, sobbing, and covering the prince’s hand with kisses.
“What!—Harry Hartsed! Not a prisoner too?”