"Poor captive!" groaned the monk.

"Ay, poor captive!" echoed Paslew. "Mine eyes have often striven to
pierce those stone walls, and see him lying there in that narrow
chamber, or forcing his way upwards, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky
above him. When I have seen the swallows settle on the old buttress, or
the thin grass growing between the stones waving there, I have thought
of him."

"Go on," said the monk.

"I scarce can proceed," rejoined Paslew. "Little time was allowed
Alvetham for preparation. That very night the fearful sentence was
carried out. The stone was removed, and a new pallet placed in the cell.
At midnight the prisoner was brought to the dormitory, the brethren
chanting a doleful hymn. There he stood amidst them, his tall form
towering above the rest, and his features pale as death. He protested
his innocence, but he exhibited no fear, even when he saw the terrible
preparations. When all was ready he was led to the breach. At that awful
moment, his eye met mine, and I shall never forget the look. I might
have saved him if I had spoken, but I would not speak. I turned away,
and he was thrust into the breach. A fearful cry then rang in my ears,
but it was instantly drowned by the mallets of the masons employed to
fasten up the stone."

There was a pause for a few moments, broken only by the sobs of the
abbot. At length, the monk spoke.

"And the prisoner perished in the cell?" he demanded in a hollow voice.