The black guards closed around them, and once more Hugh found himself in the draughty passages under the Palace. But presently they ascended a flight of stairs, and emerged into a narrow, high-walled courtyard. Overhead the early stars were twinkling frostily in the wintry sky. "Look your last on Heaven, Messer Hugh," counselled Bartolommeo as they hurried along. "Ay, by Bacchus, His like to be your last look! Tarry a moment--I do not grudge it to you!--'tis a fair sight, is it not? To be young, and to have the stars to look upon! Ha, I would I had not a life of joyous sin behind me! How much more merrily might I have sinned had I had the experience I now possess! This way, good youth. To your right--up these steps. So! The stars are gone." An Ethiopian guard opened a metal gate, and swung it shut on their heels. They descended a corkscrew stair in the hollow of an immensely thick wall, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. At the lowest level, they came out upon a corridor as black as night, and the guards were forced to halt and light a lamp which was ready in a niche of the wall. A few paces on, and Bartolommeo stopped at a metal-bound door. "May the devil smile upon me, but 'tis like visiting an old friend," he remarked, as he fumbled with a bunch of keys. "I must have a look before you go in. Belike, he will be pleased to see me again." He opened the door and peered within. "Ha, Magnificence, how pass the days?" he called. "'Tis Bartolommeo Caraducci asks. We have not met in many a long day." "Doth the devil yet spare you, Bartolommeo?" replied a deep, ringing voice that sent a thrill up Hugh's spine. "How lonesome must be all the fiends!" Bartolommeo chuckled. "A rare spirit, by St. Bacchus! A rare spirit! We were talking of you but now. How you keep up I cannot see, fair sir. Never knew I one like you, and God knows I have served the devil over-long. But we have a change for you, a diversion, ay, a companion. How will it seem after--ha, 'tis seven years now, is it not?--ay, going on eight? I wish you joy of one another. There will be much to talk over. It may be---- But I talk too long. In with you, Messer Hugh." He gave Hugh a push and the door slammed shut. "Rest well, fair sirs. Bartolommeo will not forget you." A roar of hoarse laughter, and footsteps retreating in the distance. Then--silence. But gradually Hugh became conscious of a man's laboured breathing. In the pitch-darkness of the dungeon it was impossible to see the stranger, yet his presence was as palpable as though verified by touch. He stood a few feet distant, almost within reach, drawing in breaths in great, gusty sobs, uncannily speechless. At last Hugh could stand it no longer. Was the man, perchance, a lunatic, despite that resonant voice and quick reply to Bartolommeo? Was it Mocenigo's subtle purpose to subject him to the ravings of a madman, hoping thereby to wear down his spirit?