When he re-opened his eyes, and, after lying for a few minutes between sleep and waking, became conscious of his position, of the day, of the things which had happened, and his helplessness--an awakening which wrung from him an involuntary groan--the light in the room was still strong, and even bright.

He fancied for a moment that he had merely dozed off and awaked again; and he continued to lie with his face to the wall, courting a return of slumber.
But sleep did not come, and little by little, as he lay listening and thinking and growing more restless, he got the fancy that he was alone.
The light fell brightly on the wall to which his face was turned; how could that be if Bigot's broad shoulders still blocked the loophole?
Presently, to assure himself, he called the man by name.
He got no answer.
"Badelon!" he muttered.

"Badelon!" Had he gone, too, the old and faithful?
It seemed so, for again no answer came.
He had been accustomed all his life to instant service; to see the act follow the word ere the word ceased to sound.

And nothing which had gone before, nothing which he had suffered since his defeat at Angers, had brought him to feel his impotence and his position--and that the end of his power was indeed come--as sharply as this.

The blood rushed to his head; almost the tears to eyes which had not shed them since boyhood, and would not shed them now, weak as he was! He rose on his elbow and looked with a full heart; it was as he had fancied.