"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."
The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the
bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of
the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all
was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from
the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.
Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching--it was
certainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the
crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.
"Wilfred, art thou here?"
"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"
"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced
thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."
"I cannot tell thee."
"Was it not fear, then?"
"It was not."
"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee
to the others."
"I cannot."
"Thou wilt not."
"If thou wilt have it so."
"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."
And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went down
the stairs. One pang of boyish pride--wounded pride--but it was
soon lost in the deeper woe.
A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. He
ate it, and then, wearied out--he had had no rest during the
previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle
for twenty hours--wearied out, he slept.
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