The night was characterized by a dry, cold atmosphere. An occasional gust of wind shivered the leaves of the trees, among which the silver gleams of the high-poised moon fantastically played. The stillness would have been continuous but for the shrill interruptions of watchful owls. Thoughtfully Savin strode on, taking the road which led to the Trinquelin, by a descent into a ravine. Overcome with a sudden remorse, Catherine left her bed, and opening a window gazed out into the night. After several minutes of unpleasant silence she heard stealthy footsteps approaching, and soon a man’s figure appeared to view. The sight filled Catherine with a double sense of horror. She opened the window and in a loud voice cried: “Firmin, go home!” But the unresponsive figure only hastened on in the gloom of the oak-trees. Hurrying out of the house, Catherine was bent on overtaking the person ahead of her. As she advanced she gave earnest utterance to the words: “Stop, Firmin! Abandon your object! Pray come back! I am unwilling----” But the figure had disappeared. “It is fate,” murmured the young woman, who was shaking like an aspen leaf. Eleven o’clock sounded. As the night advanced Catherine was torn the more by conflicting emotions. Love and despair grappled her heart. The more she thought of Savin as lost to her forever, the greater seemed her love for him. And yet she could not help but feel that he had humiliated her before the world. At a little past midnight she heard carriage wheels. The horses’ hoofs clattered over the frozen road, and then passing the cottage at the corner of the wood their echoes grew fainter and fainter until they no longer could be heard. Was her husband’s wounded or death-cold form being borne away in that late-hour vehicle? Catherine asked herself this question with a cold shudder, as she crouched down beside her chamber window and waited. Perchance to distract her thoughts she began to count the branches of the trees in front of the cottage. But this was a vain and mocking pastime. Every rustle of the leaves to her alarmed senses seemed like the report of a gun. Even the creaking of the floor under her weight as she moved startled her. Once more she went to bed, but only to toss about in dire distress. The terrible situation appalled her; and the more she considered it, the more atrocious seemed the part she was playing. Visions of Savin her husband, he who had protected her against the world, the man to whom she owed everything--wounded and perhaps dying at that very moment--haunted her. And yet, he had humiliated her. Yes; but what a fearful vengeance--that he should die because of a few vehement words!