I turned my staring eyeballs towards the shape at the table. It was too dark at first for me to distinguish his features, but the contour of the figure seemed to suggest the personality of Angelo. By and by the obscurity of the cell became faintly illumined by the withdrawal of some dark clouds from the face of the sky, and I saw that my captor was indeed the artist. Clad in a dark velvet jacket, he sat with his hands clasped at the back of his head, and one leg thrown carelessly over the other. I had not expected my captor to be any one else than Angelo, and yet the recognition seemed to come upon me as a surprise. I shall not pretend to be a hero, and say that the recognition brought with it no fear. It did indeed bring a very great pang of fear. I felt such a sensation then as I never before felt and never wish to feel again. I was a captive in the power of a rival who hated me with all the hatred of a hatred-loving race. I had sneered at him and at his adored art. I had robbed him of Daphne, depriving him by that act of a figure whose beauty would be an acquisition to his studio. I had little to hope from his mercy. Preserving with difficulty my presence of mind, I manipulated the silken bands on my wrists in the hope of releasing myself, but Angelo had performed his task too well to permit this. It was evident that my earthly salvation was not within my own power. It must come--if it should come at all--from without. With a terror that increased moment by moment, I recognised how hopeless was my situation. True, the Baronet and my uncle would miss me on their return, and, conjecturing that I had gone to the Nuns' Tower, might come to seek me, but their aid would be of no avail, for, even if they should come with a body of servants armed with axes, it would take them a minute at least to force open the strong oaken door--ample time for the artist to compass his work of vengeance and escape by the secret passage. What men usually do when nothing else is left for them to do, I did. The first really fervent prayer that I ever breathed rose to my lips. As I could see Angelo's eyes quite plainly, I concluded he could see mine, and hence he must have perceived that I had recovered from my state of lethargy. He did not speak, however, but continued to look at me, as if my captivity were a luxury too rich for words. Several minutes passed, and at last the silence became so oppressive that I could bear it no longer, and I said: "Was it you who bound me like this?" "It was." A brief reply--delivered in a cool tone of voice, too, as if the seizure and binding of a gentleman to a Gothic pillar was an every-day event with him, and of too trifling a character to require any comment or apology. "Confound your ill-timed jest! Cut these cords at once, before my cries bring assistance."