It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father
Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave
condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him
as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last
time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining
in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern
climes. But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden
times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth;
and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

"Shall I ever see my native land again?"

It seemed impossible, but "hope springs eternal in the human
breast." All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling
with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a
loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of
alarm or anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which
he knew enough of their language to interpret--the palace was in
flames.

"Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay
till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?"

The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard
without. The doors were opened one after another--

"Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!"