De Lacy turned his head toward the window, hoping for some sign of day, but the East was black.  With an impatient sigh he lay back.  Was ever man so sorely tried—­so cruelly used—­so choked by horrors of the probable!  Then came a troubled slumber—­a tossing and a waking—­that was ended by a quick step in the corridor, and with a bound he reached the door and flung it open.

“Sir John------” the page began, but got no farther--De Lacy was gone.

Sir John de Bury lay as when Aymer left him, but the color was coming back to his face and his eyes were open, and he smiled very faintly in greeting.

“He may speak?” De Lacy asked.

“A few words, Signor,” the Italian answered.

Just then the King entered hastily, a long gown about him.  Sir John tried to raise his hand in salute, but Richard quickly caught the weak fingers.

“Nay, nay, my friend,” he said; “another time for that.” . . .  Then to Carcea:  “Has he spoken?”

“Not yet, Sire; and if it please Your Majesty, it would be well to ask the questions so that they can be answered by a motion of the head.  The patient’s strength will permit few words.”

“Do you understand, John?” Richard asked.

De Bury smiled faintly and indicated that he did.

“Were you attacked?” the King went on.

“Yes,” said the nod.

“By highwaymen?”

A pause, and then—­“No.”

“By men hired for the purpose?”

“Yes,” readily.

“Do you know by whom?”

Another pause; then—­“No.”

“You have suspicion?”

“Yes,” quickly.

“More of that in a moment; first, tell me, did they carry off the
Countess?”

“Yes,” and the old eyes glowed fiercely.

“Was she hurt in the struggle?”

“No.”

“Were you attacked in the main road?”

“No.”

“On a by-track?”

“Yes.”

“North of the main road?”

“Yes.”

“Near the main road?”

“Yes.”

“Two leagues from here?”

“Yes,” after a slight pause.

“More than two?”

“No.”

“Oh! the path to the Hermit’s Cell?”

“Yes,” quickly.

“How long after you left Pontefract—­two hours?”

“Yes,” readily.

“Can you show the number of your assailants on your fingers?”

The right hand opened and closed twice.

“Ten, mean you?” the King exclaimed.

“Yes,” instantly.

“Pardieu! did you recognize any of them?”

“One,” said the raised finger.

“Can you whisper his name?” and the King bent low over the bed.

Sir John’s lips twitched.  He labored hard to speak, but the strength was wanting; no sound came; the tongue refused to move.  A spasm of disappointment passed over his face.  Then suddenly he fixed his eyes meaningly upon De Lacy, and Richard understood.