Against the wall, crouched
down with his head between his knees, and a few rags of mouldy plaid
about his shoulders, was the grim skeleton of what had once been a
living man.
Allan drew back the tattered plaid and saw the bare ribs and fleshless
arms. And could it be that the young hope of Bute, Kenric the good, the
brave, the true, had come to this?
Allan bent down. He was about to touch the ghastly thing. Then the awful
silence of that black tomb was broken by the sound of a low moan. Allan
listened again, but he heard only the drip, drip of water. Then again
came the moaning sound. He turned round and bounded forward. By the
light of his torch, that pierced the darkness, he saw a pale wan face,
with hollow cheeks and round, staring, brown eyes. The lips moved.
"Allan? Allan?" they faintly said.
And then Kenric raised himself on his elbow.
"The great God be thanked!" gasped Allan, and he fell upon his knees at
Kenric's side.
Kenric spoke not again: he was faint and sore of limb. Allan took off
his plaid and spread it upon the damp, rocky floor. Then he raised
Kenric in his arms, and wrapping him in the plaid carried him to the
bottom of the shaft where hung the rope. Making a sling of his plaid and
securing it to the rope he called to his men to draw up the line, and in
a few minutes Earl Kenric lay in the upper chamber breathing the fresher
air.
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