The single word rang down the hall like the challenging blast of a trumpet, as all turned to see standing there against the tapestry the tall, gaunt figure of a man. *CHAPTER X* For a few minutes there reigned a breathless silence. All eyes seemed indeed riveted on that strange, emaciated figure, which half leant, as if for support, against Gwennola’s slender form as she stood beside him, her pale face flushed now rosy red with joy and triumph, as she glanced from the bound, helpless figure between the soldiers towards her father. The Sieur de Mereac had risen, and was standing, one trembling hand clutching the back of his chair, the other shading his eyes, as if the flickering torchlight blinded his sight, as he gazed in mute wonder towards the speaker. Then, as the blue eyes met the black with an up-leaping light of recognition, another cry, more faltering, yet trembling with a very wonderment of joy, rang out in the silence— "Yvon! Yvon! my boy! my boy!" For the time all were forgotten: prisoners, accusers, false and true; to the old man striding forwards with outstretched arms, the world, for the moment, contained nothing but that haggard, dishevelled figure, and the blue eyes of his long-lost, long-mourned son. "Father," cried Yvon with a sob, as he staggered forward to meet him. "Father, at last!" De Coray had sprung to his feet with an oath, half fury, half dismay, as Yvon de Mereac sent down his challenge through the hall. Little as he had dreamt that his blow had not been fatal in that dark wood of St Aubin du Cormier, he was sufficiently keen-witted to vaguely guess the sequel, his conclusion being more easily drawn from the fact of the unexplained presence of his old comrade and late enemy, François Kerden. Without giving himself time or trouble to fit into its place every piece of the puzzle, he grasped the meaning of the whole, and realized that it was indeed Yvon de Mereac who stood before him, and also that his own position was one of imminent danger. These calculations passed like lightning through his ready mind as he looked eagerly round for means of escape. None noticed him or his movements, all attention being fixed on the two central figures of the little drama. All indeed but one, for, as he turned, he encountered the sympathetic and comprehensive gaze of Pierre the fool. That the strange, dwarfed jester had evinced an unaccountable devotion for him had puzzled de Coray more than once, little used as he had ever been to be loved for his own sake, and he was more than half inclined to treat the little fellow’s overtures with suspicion. But in the present crisis it would be well to have even a fool for a friend rather than an enemy, and de Coray, obeying Pierre’s obvious signs, crept unseen behind the tapestry.