"Is this, then, the vile prison-house to which thou hast been leading me?" she cried to Baulch, as she drew rein in front of the drawbridge and looked wildly about her for some possible way of escape from her captors. "It is, lady. Lead on," responded Baulch grimly, as he forced her horse on to the drawbridge and led it across into the castle courtyard. "This is thy new home. My advice to thee is to make the best of it." Dismounting, Beatrice and her maid were led to the door of the central donjon and up the stone staircase to a chamber almost on a level with the outer walls. The door was flung open, and they were roughly bidden to enter. They did so, feeling that it was useless to resist, and feeling, too, that at any rate matters would now soon come to a head and end their pitiable state of uncertainty and suspense. Immediately the door was clanged to and bolted behind them. The room in which they found themselves was small and sparsely furnished, but was not uninviting. The number of rich rugs which plentifully bestrewed the floors seemed to indicate that at least an attempt had been made to give an air of something approaching comfort to a room otherwise plain and bare. This fact might have reassured them somewhat had it not indicated the far more terrifying fact that they had been expected. Who he might be, and what his purpose, that had stretched out so long and powerful an arm as to drag them to this remote and lonely spot, Beatrice could not even hazard a guess. Nevertheless, in spite of the mystery and terrifying uncertainty in which she found herself, she strove to keep a brave heart, as much for the sake of her maid--to whom she was much attached--as for her own. About an hour after their arrival, footsteps were heard approaching the chamber. They came to a stop at the door, and a moment later a man entered. It was Sir Gervaise de Maupas. At the sight of this man, whom she both knew and dreaded, Beatrice involuntarily sprang up from the couch on which she had been reclining. "Thou!" she cried, in a voice in which anger, scorn, and fear all had a place. "Yea, lady, who else should it be?" replied De Maupas in a soft voice, as he bowed with the utmost gallantry and advanced into the centre of the room. "Who else would risk his all--name, career, and life--out of love for thee? None but Sir Gervaise de Maupas, knight of England, I do venture to assert." As he spoke, De Maupas drew himself up with dignity. He was clad in a richly inlaid suit of armour, over which a splendid cloak had been carelessly flung. But for the hawk-like and cruel expression of his thin face, he would have looked a goodly and martial sight enough. "Love for me? What dost mean, sir?" cried Beatrice roundly, though for all her boldness her limbs trembled beneath her.