The colour rushed back to Diana’s face; a flame of joy leaped to her eye. “This is no spirit-call, but good human sound. Harry, honest Harry here!—Ah, my lord, in time to save us!” The revulsion of feeling, the unconscious admission of her words, a fierce flame of insane jealousy, suddenly kindled by the glad note in her voice, broke down the last shred of Rockhurst’s self-control. His passion escaped him, tigerish:— “By the Lord God of Heaven or the Devil Lord of Hell, thou shalt not go to him!” The young voice was uplifted again without. “Knock once more, Robin; I hear stirring within.” And a lusty shout succeeded:— “Ho, Chitterley, ’tis I, Robin, with Master Harry Rockhurst!” Rockhurst caught Diana in his arms. “Mine, Diana, mine, and none shall come between us!” He held her for a second against his breast, and she heard the great hammering of his heart; then she found herself thrust within a darkened room, heard the door close upon her, the shooting of a bolt. A prisoner—and darkness all about her, a strange suffocating darkness, thick with the fumes of a burnt-out lamp. * * * * * As the Lord Constable unbolted the outer door, he was met by the precipitate entrance of his son. “Good heavens, Chitterley—” The broken words were cut short: “My lord … yourself in person! Thank God, thank God!” Young Rockhurst cast himself impetuously upon his father’s breast, sobbing with excitement. The latter suffered the embrace in silence, supported the boy, as he clung to him in sudden weakness, into the room, led him to a chair. Then he stood a second in gloomy silence, staring at the young bowed figure, sitting where she had sat, his face hidden in his hands, even as hers had been. Tears! and this weakling would wed Diana!—Diana, who had not suffered hers to fall! Yet Rockhurst loved his son; and there was a strange rending pain at his heart. Into the oppressive stillness, broken only by Harry’s catching breath, there came from the inner room a stir as of curtains wrenched apart, as of creaking easements thrust open; and next a stifled cry. Rockhurst, expecting the instant of revelation, braced himself as a man may for the meeting of his death-stroke. But nothing more was heard, save a long, sweet whistle—some call in the street, doubtless. Ah—Diana would not betray him!—Diana loved him! As if the shrill, sweet signal had roused him, Harry Rockhurst started, dashed the tears from his cheeks, and rising, seized his father’s hand to pour forth a torrent of words:— “Alas, my lord, and how had you the heart to leave me in this ignorance of your peril?—Had not Lionel writ to me—Oh, father, never look so sternly on me! I know I have transgressed your command to remain in the country, but how could I keep away? ’Twas not in nature—Where is Diana? Oh, my God, Chillingburgh House is deserted, the doors open to the winds, the old lady abandoned, dead, stark in her chair! Where is Diana? Father—my Diana!”