Angeliké’s whole frame tingled with delicious excitement. Her lover thought she was shivering with fear, and since the elder members of the party were too much occupied to heed the breach of etiquette, he drew close to her and they followed hand in hand, through a rough door which had been left ajar, and down a rude flight of stone steps, the disturbed dust on which showed that some one in trailing clothes had passed down them not long before. Poor Danaë, feeling her way fearfully in the dark, with a bundle of clothes under her arm and the huge purloined key in her hand!
Armitage had spent many hours, so he believed, in his dungeon, before the prospect of escape offered itself. Very soon after his incarceration, while he was still trying to attract by shouting the notice of possible passers-by, a distant voice coming through the airhole informed him that Petros had heard him, and was going for help at once. Thereupon the prisoner ceased his efforts and sat down, lest if he made any more noise he should be transferred to some even less accessible prison before the arrival of the armed party which he confidently expected his captain to send off at once to rescue him. He was in a towering rage—a very unusual frame of mind for him—and felt positive pleasure in the thought of fighting his way down to the harbour at the head of his men; but the hours went by, and the opportunity was not afforded him. No one came near him. It was evident that his obstinacy was to be subdued by hunger, and also by cold, for as it grew darker the chill of the dungeon became extreme. No sounds penetrated to him, and now that no light came through the airhole, he felt as if he was buried alive. Very early he decided to make a fight for it if anyone came to bring him food. He would leap upon him and knock him down, and he only hoped it might be Prince Christodoridi himself!
At last, when he had fallen into an uneasy sleep, with his back against the rough rock wall, he was roused by the sound of a key in the lock. There was a good deal of groping for the keyhole first, and then the key turned slowly, as though held by hands not strong enough to deal with it properly, and Armitage renounced his murderous intention in haste. Whoever this visitor might be, it was certainly not Prince Christodoridi, and he rather thought he knew who it was.
“Lord?” said a faltering voice, when the door creaked slowly open at last.
“I am here, Lady Danaë,” said an answering voice, so unexpectedly close to her that she gave a little shriek. But there was urgent need for haste, and she spoke rapidly.
“Here, lord, here are some garments. Put on the kilt over your own clothes, and the coat instead of yours, and pull the cap down well over your face. Then you will be able to pass through the servants without being perceived.”
“Sotīri’s clothes?” asked Armitage, taking the bundle from her hands, and she answered with a little laugh of shy pleasure.
“Yes, lord, Sotīri’s clothes. He is a useful boy.”
“Most useful. You must forgive me for slighting your warning, Lady Danaë. I did not know how completely you were still in the Middle Ages here.”
“Ah, lord, be thankful that you don’t live here! But hasten, for they may find out that the key is gone.”