"Thy name and conditions, sirrah. I perceive that thou art not of common stock. Answer truly for thy life."
"I'll answer thee truly, though not by reason of fear. I am Geoffrey, son of Sir Oliver Lysle."
"If thy father were worthy of the name he would have returned to aid his son," sneered Sir Denis.
"Without doubt he will in good time," replied Geoffrey boldly.
"I trust he will. Perchance he may again be a guest under my roof. But a truce to idle talk; search him."
Under the rough practised hands of the soldiers the files and the dagger concealed on the lad were discovered and promptly taken possession of by his captors, and with coarse gibes he was hurried from the presence of the fierce baron.
From the room in the inner ward Geoffrey was taken across the courtyard, where he had a brief glimpse of the clear blue sky that was to be a stranger to him for many a long, weary day.
Unlocking a small heavily-barred door on the ground level of the massive keep or "donjon," the men-at-arms thrust the lad within. Then, taking a lighted torch that cast a weird glare upon the low, musty stonework of a long passage, one of the men led the way, followed by the captive and the rest of his guards.
At the termination of the passage a flight of narrow stone steps communicated with another tunnel-like way twenty feet beneath the upper one. Here the atmosphere was even more dank and unwholesome, while to the young prisoner the footfalls of the men sounded like a knell.
Still deeper in the bowels of the earth did they descend, till Geoffrey found himself in another tunnel-like passage roughly constructed of stones set herring-bone fashion, rising to an uncemented line of key-stones overhead. Through the joints the moisture dripped incessantly, forming slimy pools that reflected the dull red glare of the flaming torch.