“I must go,” muttered Ned, all in a moment. He spoke confusedly, trying to withdraw his hand. But the other soft clutch resisted: the other half-deafened ears could yet essay to catch the import of the murmur. “You won’t leave me--here alone?” she said. “Oh, I shall die of the fear!” She could waive before him all pretence of her possessing the divine favour or protection. It was her rapture that this man--who had again stepped across the years of darkness into her life--knew her soul; her rapture to woo him by the seduction of her surrender to his nobler understanding. His spirit darkened; yet, knowing her fearfulness of old, he could not in common humanity forsake her till the terror was past. So they sat on in silence, she flung at his feet, holding his hand, while the flame and fury expended themselves overhead. Once or twice he was conscious that her lips were helping the office of her fingers; and he flushed shamefully in the darkness, yet would not seem to condone her offence--her terrible sacrilege, even, under the circumstances--by so much as noticing it. But he thought of the little flower-packet in his breast; and he cursed his bitter folly that, after such a warning as he had already had, he should have ventured himself wantonly within the charmed influence of this silken-skinned witch. Suddenly, it might almost be said, the tempest fled by. It passed as rapidly as it had come, travelling westwards on a flooded current of wind. The noise, the glare, ceased; light grew on the dim-washed walls; the dark picture above the altar revealed itself a pious representation of the very subject that had founded the chapel. There the saint stood in effigy for all the world to worship: here she knelt self-confessed at the feet of the one man for whose hot reprobation she yearned, so long as it would kiss in pity where it had struck. Ned glanced down at the lifted face. It may have suggested in its expression some secret, half-unconscious triumph. He tore away his hand--sprang to his feet, as the clouds broke outside and sunshine came into the place. “You must let me go,” he said. “Your saints will be enough to protect you now.” She rose hurriedly, and stood beside him. There was something new and indescribable in her air and appearance--it might have been the mere maturity of self-love. Whatever her stress of mind during these three years, its effect had not been to warp and wither her physical beauty. Even the little angles of the past were rounded off. She was developed--a riper, more perilous Lamia. “Hush!” she whispered, pointing to the altar, “the tabernacle!” He gave a low little laugh. “What!” he said, dropping his voice nevertheless, “is the presence more real to you than to me? Will you still pretend? We are alone, Nicette.” Alone! the word was soft music to her. “No,” she said, coming after him as he strode towards the door, “I will pretend to nothing--nothing, with you.” She put out a hand and gently detained him.