Upon returning, she met Glenarvon. They walked together to the mountains; they conversed; and half in jest she asked him for his hand,—“not that hand,” she said, “give me your right hand: I wish to look upon it.” “I believe I must refuse you, your manner is so strange,” he replied. “Do if you please, for the reason I wish to see it is more so. It was a dream, a horrid dream, which made me ill last night. The effect, perhaps of what you told me yesterday.” “I should like to hear it. Are you superstitious?” “No; but there are visions unlike all others, that impress us deeply, and this was one. I almost fear to tell it you.” “I too have dreamt,” said he, “but my dream, sweet one, brought only to my fancy, the dearest wishes of my heart. Oh would to God that I might live to realize a dream like that, which blest me yesternight. Shall I repeat it?” “Not now, I am too sad for it; but mine, if indeed you wish it, you may hear.” “I dreamt (but it is absurd to repeat it) that I was in some far distant country. I was standing by the sea, and the fresh air blew gently upon me, even as it does now; but ... it was night. There was a dirge sung as in monasteries, and friars passed to and fro, in long procession before me. Their torches now and then lighted the vaults, and the chaunt was mournful, and repeatedly interrupted—all this was confused.—That which was more striking, I remember better. A monk in black stood before me; and whilst he gazed upon me, he grew to a height unusual and monstrous: he seemed to possess some authority over me, and he questioned me as to my conduct and affections. I tried to disguise from him many thoughts which disturbed me; I spoke in a hurried manner of others; I named you not. He shook his head; and then looking fiercely at me, bade me beware of Clarence de Ruthven (for so he called you). I never can forget his voice. All others you may see, you may converse with; but, Calantha, beware,” he said, “of Clarence de Ruthven: he is a ... he is a....” “A what?” enquired Glenarvon eagerly. “I dare not continue.” Glenarvon, however, insisted upon hearing this. “I never, never can tell,” said Calantha, “for you look so much offended—so serious.—After all, what nonsense it is thus to repeat a dream.” “That which seems to have made no little impression upon Lady Avondale’s mind, cannot fail of awakening some interest in mine. It is a very strange vision,” continued he, fixing his eyes on her. “These idle phantasies are but repetitions of the secret workings of the mind. Your own suspicions have coloured this. Go on, let me hear all.” “Indeed I forget;—it was confused. I seemed in my dream to doubt his words. Only this I remember:—he bade me ask you for your hand—your right hand; he said there was a stain of blood on it; and in a low solemn tone, he added, ‘he will not give it you; there is a mark upon it: he dare not give it you;’ and I awoke.”