Left to himself, Raymond fell a prey to the deepest despondency. The failure of his ill-starred attempt, the comparative ease of his capture, and the mortification which the Constable would feel at his non-return, weighed upon the unhappy squire far more than the danger of his hopeless position, and, grief-stricken, he lay on a stone bench, listlessly marking the sound of the rapidly-retreating storm, till a feeble glimmer through the lancet window betokened that the day was dawning. He had one consolation, sorry though it was—there remained another Englishman within the stronghold, the solitary survivor of five picked men-at-arms.
Presently Raymond stood up and stretched his cramped limbs, then standing on the bench he found that he could just reach the window. Grasping the stone ledge with his hands, he raised himself sufficiently to look out.
It was a cheerless outlook. In front, a bow-shot away, lay the dense masses of the forest, still hazy with the morning mist. An open space, broken only by a moat full of slimy water, lay between the forest and the stronghold, though no drawbridge was visible on that side.
And beyond the forest lay, at an unknown distance, the English camp, where even now Sir John Hacket was doubtless expecting his return with the expected captive. Overcome with the irony of the situation, Raymond clambered down from the window and relapsed into his moody and despondent attitude.
For several hours he remained thus, till aroused by the drawing back of the bolts of his prison door. The door was thrown open, and an armed man entered, bearing a pitcher of water and a trencher of black bread, while another man stood without, for fear of an outburst of the prisoner. Without a word the jailer set down the meal and retired.
Twice daily was this done, and thus the days sped, slowly and cheerlessly, but no visit from the Count of Tancarville served to break the dismal monotony.
On the fifth day Raymond heard the sound of martial preparations, and climbing to the window he caught a brief glimpse of a body of armed and mounted men riding past his prison; one of whom, he had no doubt, was the Count. Then came the rumble of heavily-laden wains, but in which direction the party disappeared the squire was unable to see.
Evidently the little garrison of this sylvan fortress was considerably depleted, for Raymond noticed that his jailer came into his prison alone. He thought, though, that this might have been through a sense of familiarity at his prisoner's dejected mien. Yet daily, for hours together, the sound of the pestle, dimly heard through the thick adjoining wall, showed that the taciturn old monk still pursued his dangerous task.
Four more days passed in dreadful solitude, till, maddened by the hopelessness of his condition, Raymond resolved on desperate measures to attempt his escape. Plan after plan flashed through his brain, only to be put aside as impracticable. Feigning death, burrowing through the stone walls of his prison, attacking his jailer, all seemed hopeless, till at length a scheme, hazardous in the extreme, yet capable of meeting with possible success, matured in his mind and hourly increased his hopes of ultimate success.
Usually the jailer found him sitting dejectedly upon the stone bench, practically invisible in the gloom to any one entering from the dazzling sunlight without. But on this particular morning Raymond, awaiting the jailer's footsteps, carefully removed his surcoat and hid behind the door. Directly the man entered he made, as was his wont, direct for the bench, when the squire, springing upon him from behind, muffled his head in the surcoat and bore him to the ground. The jug and platter fell with a resounding crash, and Raymond, seizing the broken pitcher, struck the jailer such a shrewd blow that it all but split his skull, leaving him senseless on the floor.