They were singing a hymn, but not in the customary untuneful yell of the village school.

The voices were clear and sweet and true, and the words came distinct and pure to the two men standing at the table.
"He comes, the prisoners to release In Satan's bondage held, The gates of brass before Him burst, The iron fetters yield." Piers' hand tightened all-unconsciously upon Sir Beverley's arm.

His face was very white.

In his eyes there shone a curious hunger--such a look as might have gleamed in the eyes of the prisoners behind the gates.
Again came the words, triumphantly repeated: "The gates of brass before Him burst, The iron fetters yield." And an odd sound that was almost a sob broke from Piers.
Sir Beverley looked at him sharply; but in the same moment he drew back, relinquishing his hold, and stepped lightly across the room to the window.
There was a decided pause before the next verse.

Piers stood with his face to the blind, making no movement.