Those willows on the bank had recalled Goethe’s “Erl König”--the ballad she had learnt by rote in her earliest German studies--and the willows and the ballad were interwoven with her dreams. It was Martin Disney who was riding his charger along a dark road, and she was sitting in front of his saddle, clinging to him, hiding her face upon his breast, and the willows were beckoning--she knew those gaunt arms were beckoning to her, although her eyes were hidden--and _he_ was following. He was thundering behind them, on a black horse. Yes, and then the dream changed--the dreamer’s wandering thoughts directed by another reminiscence of those girlish studies in German poetry. She was Lenore, and she was in the arms of her dead lover. She felt that bony arm--Death’s arm--clutching her round the waist. Her streaming hair mingled with the streaming mane of that unearthly horse. She was with Lostwithiel--in his arms--and they were both dead and both happy--happy in being together. What did they want more than that? “Vollbracht, vollbracht ist unser Lauf! Das Hochzeitbette, thut sich auf! Die Todten reiten schnelle! Wir sind, wir sind, zur Stelle.” She woke with the chill of the charnel-house freezing her blood. The fire had gone out. Tim had curled himself at her feet in the folds of her gown. The Persian was staring discontentedly at the ashes in the grate, and Tabitha’s sturdy footsteps might be heard in the room above, bustling to and fro, and anon poking the fire, and putting on coals, making all snug and ready for her mistress’s toilet. Isola rang, and Susan, the parlour-maid, brought in the lamp. “I came twice before, ma’am; but you were fast asleep, so I took the lamp back to the pantry.” Isola looked at the clock. Ten minutes to nine, and she was to meet Mrs. Baynham in the cloak-room at half-past ten. Ten o’clock was the hour on the card, and the fat-faced nieces were feverishly afraid that all the eligible partners would be snapped up by those wise virgins who appeared earliest on the scene. “You won’t keep us waiting in the cloak-room, will you, dear Mrs. Disney?” they pleaded coaxingly. Was she to put on her finery and go! There would be time yet to send a note to Mrs. Baynham, excusing herself on the score of illness. The doctor’s party would not start before half-past nine. What was she to do? Oh, she wanted to see him once more--just once more--in the brightly-lighted rooms, amidst a crowd--in a place where he would have no chance of repeating those wicked, wicked words--of forgetting all that was due to his own honour and to hers. In the crowded ball-room there would be safety--safety even from evil thoughts. Who could think of anything amidst the sound of dance music, the dazzle of lamps and flashing of jewels? She wanted to go to the ball, to wear her satin gown, to steep herself in light and music; and thus to escape from the dim horrors of that awful dream.