In this miserable plight Hugh Calveley remained for some hours, without light and without food.  How the time was passed none knew; but the two yeomen of the guard who entered the vault found him on his knees absorbed in prayer.  They brought a lamp with them, and refreshments of a better kind than those usually afforded to a prisoner, and set them before him.  But he refused to partake of them.  The only favour he besought was permission to read his Bible; and the lamp placed within reach, he was soon deeply engrossed in the perusal of those pages from which, when earnestly sought, consolation has ever been derived under the most trying circumstances.

Sir Jocelyn had forborne to visit the prisoner from a fear that his presence might be painful; but the office imposed upon him by the King left him no alternative; and about midnight he descended to the vault, to ascertain from personal inspection that Hugh Calveley was in safe custody.  The door was unlocked by the halberdier stationed at it, and the young man found himself alone with the prisoner.  He was inexpressibly shocked by the spectacle he beheld, as he had no idea how severely the unfortunate Puritan had been treated, nor of the sort of prison in which he was confined.

Hugh Calveley, who was still intently reading the Bible, which he had placed upon his knee while he held the lamp near it, to throw the light upon its leaves, did not appear to be disturbed by the opening of the door, nor did he raise his eyes.  But, at last, a deep groan issuing from the breast of the young man aroused him, and he held up the lamp to ascertain who was near.  On discovering that it was Sir Jocelyn, he knitted his brow, and, after sternly regarding him for a moment, returned to his Bible, without uttering a word; but finding the other maintained his post, he demanded, almost fiercely, why he was disturbed?

“Can I do aught for your relief?” rejoined the young man.  “At least, I can have those chains taken off.”

“Thou speakest as one in authority,” cried Hugh Calveley, regarding him, fixedly.  “Art thou appointed to be my jailer?”

Sir Jocelyn made no answer, but averted his head.

“This only was wanting to fill up the measure of my scorn for thee,” pursued the Puritan.  “Thou art worthy of thine office.  But show me no favour, for I will receive none at thy hands.  I would rather wear these fetters to my death, however much they may gall my limbs, than have them struck off by thee.  I would rather rot in this dungeon—­ay, though it were worse than it is—­than owe my liberation to thee.  The sole favour thou canst show me is to rid me of thy presence, which is hateful to me, and chases holy thoughts from my breast, putting evil in their place.”

“Why should this be so, O friend of my father?” exclaimed Sir Jocelyn.  “And why should my presence be hateful to you?  There is no man living whom I would less willingly offend than yourself; and in all I have done, where you have been concerned, I have had no free agency.  Judge me not then too harshly.  I commiserate your situation from the depths of my heart, and would relieve it were it possible.”