“‘I cannot describe to you the perplexity into which I was thrown by the contents of this letter—nor the anxiety with which I awaited the opportunity of complying with the request contained in it. It seemed as if that moment was destined never to arrive, so tediously did the evening pass—so slow did the domestics seem in their preparations for retiring to rest. “‘At length all was quiet in the château, and, with thanks to Heaven that it should at last be so, I muffled myself in my cloak, and ventured forth. The night was dark; there were neither moon nor stars; but so impressed was I by the tone of mystery in which my brother wrote, that I did not even carry with me the lantern with which I had returned from the villa, and drove back with blows my faithful dog who had attempted to follow me as usual, lest his bark might alarm the servants. It was a calm, still night—not a whisper was heard among the trees, nor the movement of any living thing among the bushes which skirted the garden-path down which I passed, with beating heart, towards the tank. It was situated in a hollow at the bottom of the garden, and in a place well fitted for concealment, being embosomed in trees, and surrounded by a thick hedge in order to shade the water from the sun, so that, even in the heat of summer, the air always struck damp and chill to any one coming to it from the broad sunlit alleys of the garden. “‘At the end of the narrow path, so narrow that even two persons could not walk in it abreast, a flight of stone steps, always wet and slippery, reached to the edge of the reservoir, which, at certain seasons of the year, was extremely deep and dangerous. I stood upon the steps, and endeavoured to penetrate the darkness, but I could discern nothing, save here and there the reflection in the water of some faint vapoury star, struggling to disperse the cloud which hung before it. I stooped and ran my hand along the stone. Cesario was already there—the branch of alder was laid where he had mentioned in his letter. I called in low whispers, ‘Are you here, Cesario?’ There was no answer—not a sound, save, just at the very moment, and almost as if in reply, the low, melancholy howling of the dog whom I had repulsed on leaving the château, and who had remained watching at the door! I walked round stealthily to the gate by which my brother must have entered—perhaps I should find him awaiting me there. But no, the gate was open—he _must_ be in the garden. Again did I call, and again, and still the same silence, and so I fancied that he must have arrived early, and, tired of tarrying in the same spot, was wandering through the grounds, but would most assuredly return to the place where he had appointed me to meet him. I sat down on the steps of the reservoir, consoled with this reflection, and waited on.