At length, however, as the stillness of the night fell over the plain, broken only by the moaning wind or the agonised groan of some fellow-sufferer, he grew calmer, and a deep resignation flooded his breast.
'Mea culpa!' he murmured again. Death seemed inevitable, and he bowed his spirit humbly to accept it.
Hark!—
The mingled anguish and joy of hope awaked once more. For the silence was broken by a sound so faint that his listening ears could scarce detect its repetition, distracted as they were by the tumultuous pulses which throbbed at the possibility of escape. Yet why hope rather than fear? Why should the sound of approaching steps mean friends rather than foes?
The fact grew certain. Steps were approaching, and were accompanied by a clash of arms that betokened soldiery.
How he strained to catch every faint sound that might indicate the direction in which these, his fellow-men, alive and strong and capable of help, were moving!
'St. Nicholas befriend me! If the miracle is wrought that I be rescued from this living tomb, I vow to make pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre before my days are done!'
Then he shuddered in sick misery lest the band should pass him by! Better a blow from the miséricorde of an enemy, than the languishing torture of his present position.
Others thought so too, for he heard more than one piteous cry for help.
Then he, the proud earl, lifted up a feeble voice and craved deliverance, even by death!—