At times, however, the echoing voices of the men at work below, the sound of the saw and the hammer, snatches of song, laughter, and oaths reached his ears. But the noises gradually died away as darkness approached, and, after two hours, the most absolute silence reigned in that unfamiliar abode in which Michel found himself imprisoned, dying of hunger and weariness. Those two hours of suspense would have seemed very long to him if sleep had not come to his aid. Although his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the gallery, he made no attempt to inspect the objects of art which it contained. He had dropped upon a rug, and fell into a sort of lethargy, interrupted sometimes by the tumult below, and the uneasiness which one feels when sleeping in a strange place. At last, when nightfall was followed by the cessation of the work, he slept soundly. But a strange cry, which seemed to come from one of the rose-shaped openings which supplied the gallery with ventilation, woke him abruptly. He instinctively raised his head and fancied that he saw a faint light on the ceiling. The figures painted thereon seemed to move for an instant. Another cry, fainter than the first, but so peculiar that Michel was perturbed by it and moved to the lowest depths of his being, sounded over his head. Then the light vanished. The silence and darkness became so intense that he wondered if he had not dreamed. Another quarter of an hour passed, during which Michel, excited by what had just happened, did not think of going to sleep again. He feared that his father was in some danger which he could not define. He was horrified at the thought that he himself was a captive and unable to assist him. He examined all the doors and found them all securely locked. He dared not make any noise, for, after all, it was a woman's voice that he had heard, and he could not understand what connection there could be between that cry and his own situation or Pier-Angelo's. At last the mysterious door opened, and Pier-Angelo appeared, carrying a candle whose flickering light imparted a fantastic appearance to the statues upon which it fell one after another. When he stood beside Michel, he said in a low voice: "We are saved; the cardinal is in his dotage, and Abbé Ninfo knows nothing of our affairs. The princess, for whom I was compelled to wait a long while, because she had people about her, is of the opinion that we should make no sort of mystery about you. She thinks that that would be worse than simply to announce your return without any affectation. So we will go back to your sister, who is undoubtedly anxious because I am so late. But we have quite a little walk, and I suppose you are dying of hunger and thirst. The steward of the household, who is very kind to me, told me to take you to a little buttery, where we shall find something to eat."