The moon had somewhat declined by the time that Charles Tyrrell left the manor house; but she was still high enough in the sky to show him every object as he went along; and a lingering unwillingness to quit the place of his birth and of his youth, without taking one last look at the dwelling in which his mother still was, and in which, perhaps, the body of his father still lay, led him back into the park, which, indeed, afforded as short a way as any other, to the spot whither his steps were bent. He knew, indeed, that he must not suffer himself to be seen; for though he did not think that any of the servants would betray him, yet imprudence might do as much as treachery, and he therefore resolved merely to stand under the shadow of the wood, near the spot where the buckwheat was laid out for the young pheasants, and to be able to tell his mother, when he wrote, that he had come to gaze up at her windows, and speak an unheard farewell ere he went. He accomplished his intention in safety; the house was all closed, and the only lights that were seen, streamed through the chinks of the window-shutters in his mother's room. He gazed up thereat for some time, and then praying God to bless and protect her, he turned upon his steps, and proceeded along the path to the spot which we have before mentioned, where the walk separated into two. There he paused, and hesitated. He had a strong inclination, indeed, to visit the garden-gate, near which his father had been murdered, and to ponder over that bloody spot, as if it could give any tidings of the real assassin. He knew, however, that every moment was precious, and that there might be various arrangements to make before he went on board the ship which was to convey him to a foreign country. He therefore refrained, and turned upon the other path, which led to the end of the lady-walk, as it was called, and crossing it, brought the passenger by a small neat stile into the open fields beyond.