"Who are you?" he asked abruptly, scarce recognising his own voice as it rolled back and forth betwixt the stone walls of the dungeon. "Are you knight or common man?" The stranger gasped. "You speak the lingua franca? Art not a Greek? My God, art really human? I forbore to speak when that demon left. I was afraid to. I was afraid it was but another of his tricks. But you are really there? Let me touch you, Messer. Ay, I can feel you. Armour? Art a knight! St. James, 'tis impossible to believe! Nay, but I wrong you foully thus to rejoice when you are brought down to this bitter captivity! Ha, fair sir, I cry your pardon. Prithee, believe I am nigh mad with joy at possessing human company. 'Tis years--I forget how long; that fiend told us; but I forget--since last I clasped a human hand. Ah, God, sweet Christ is my witness I have longed for this!" Hugh felt the man's fingers wandering over his surcoat and mail, and when they came to the bonds which ill fastened his arms behind him, the prisoner exclaimed in quick pity: "I will release you, Messer. You must be in sore pain to be so constrained in armour. By your favour! There, 'tis done." The loosened cords fell to the floor, and Hugh was able cautiously to move his arms back into their normal position, strained joints creaking protestingly. "I give you thanks, Messer," he said. "Are you French or Italian?" "I am English." A myriad lights danced in the darkness before Hugh's eyes. "English? I--I, too, fair sir, am English." "Then doth my pity for you grow, Messer," answered the ringing voice gravely. "'Twere doubly bad fortune that a fellow-countryman should come to this low estate. They have a saying in Constantinople that he who is sent to the Tower of Anemas comes forth a corpse." Hugh reached out and gripped the stranger's shoulders. "Your name?" he rasped betwixt gritted teeth. "My name?" The stranger laughed pleasantly, and laid a soothing hand over one of Hugh's. "Certes, 'tis so long since I thought of myself by name that I am like to forget it. In the days when I lived, fair sir, I was called James de Chesby." Hugh sank on his knees, dragging the other with him. "Father, father," he cried brokenly. "I am Hugh! I am your son!" CHAPTER XXII THE TREASURE OF THE BUCOLEON A shudder wrenched Sir James's body. "It cannot be! It cannot be!" he groaned. "Nay, I go mad. 'Tis as I feared. At last it hath come. Oh, Holy Lady of Heaven, I conjure you by my sweet wife, take pity on this poor sufferer, and----" For the first time Hugh knew tears. "But it is I, Hugh, father," he insisted. "Be not disturbed. You do not dream. I am Hugh that you left with Prior Thomas as a little babe." "Hugh? But how come you here?" "I came seeking you." Hugh laughed bitterly. "I had hoped to save you, mayhap, or bring you such succour as you needed. Well, at the least, I may share your prison with you--thanks to the craft of my enemies."