For the first time in his life the heavy sleep of the camp deserted him, and in his dreams he pursued a phantom woman, who continually dissolved in his grasp, now laughingly, now in anger.
The morning found him deeply depressed, and he thought the unaccustomed restraints of a prison were having their effect on the spirits of a man heretofore free. He sat silently on the bench watching the door.
At last, to his great joy, he heard the rattle of bolts being withdrawn. The door opened slowly to the small extent allowed by the chains, but no one entered and the Count sat still, concealed from the view of whoever stood without.
“My Lord Count,” came the sweet tones of the girl and the listener with joy, fancied he detected in it a suggestion of apprehension, doubtless caused by the fact that the room seemed deserted. “My Lord Count, I have brought your breakfast; will you not come and receive it?”
Herbert rose slowly and came within range of his jailer’s vision. The girl stood in the hall, a repast that would have tempted an epicure arrayed on the wooden trencher she held in her hands.
“Beatrix, come in,” he said.
“I fear that in stooping, some portion of this burden may fall. Will you not take the trencher?”
The young man stepped to the opening and, taking the tray from her, placed it on the bench as he had previously done; then repeated his invitation.
“You were displeased with my company before, my Lord, and I am loath again to offend.”
“Beatrix, I beg you to enter. I have something to say to you.”