Lady Maria took Ingram's arm, Sanchia that of Chevenix, and they went downstairs. Half-way down she stopped. Chevenix looked at her. She was white; she could hardly breathe. “Good God, Sancie, what's the matter?” She stared, gasped, moved her head about. “I can't go on--I can't--I can't. It's horrible--it's awful--I'm afraid. Hush--don't make a fuss. I'm going away. This isn't possible.” The other couple were in the dining-room by now. Chevenix didn't know what to do. “There's dinner, you know, Sancie,” he said. “That's an institution, eh? You'll feel better, I expect. Keep your pecker up. I'll have a go at Nevile for you. I swear I will. Now, where's your pluck, my dear?” She shook her head, struggling all the time to get her breath. “It's gone--clean gone.” “You want food, Sancie; that's what you want. Come. Don't let's have a commotion. You leave all this to me.” She leaned against the wall, and brushed her hand across her face. Chevenix was in despair. Nevile, from below, called up, “What are you two conspiring about?” Sanchia shivered, and stood up. “Go down alone,” she said. “I can't.” III She dragged herself upstairs, and locked herself in her room, stumbled to the window, caught at it by the sill and leaned out. Her skin burned, her blood beat at her temples, and her breath came panting from her. Her white breasts ached with the burden of her strife. “I was born to live, not die. Air! or I shall fall.” It was mellow dusk by now, the lamps below her lighted, and above the chimneys and broken roof-line, above the trembling glare which meant London, there were stars in a violet sky. The stars which looked on London, looked also on the dim grass wolds, on hills rolling like waves, on muffled woods, rivers swift under their banks, on cornlands stiff and silent in the calm, on pastures and drowsy sheep. But the hills stretched out on either side of a valley, fold upon fold, everlastingly the same. There Despoina walked, at the deepest hour of the night. Even now she was looked for by one who sat in the valley and watched the East--intent, hooded, white, his chin upon his knees. A knock sounded at her door. She turned and ran to open. “Her ladyship have sent to know if you would have something sent up, miss.” “Nothing, nothing.” She sped back to the window. At midnight, Despoina should be there. At midnight! In three hours! It was time to get ready; there wasn't a moment to lose. She watched the night as if she were listening to it, counting its pulse. Then, kneeling where she was, she began to unfasten her hair, running her hands through it as each clinging coil loosened and grew light. So presently she was curtained in her hair. It drooped about her burning cheeks and veiled her bosom. She looked like the Magdalen in the desert, facing, wide-eyed, the preacher. There she knelt on, in a trance, waiting for the hour. It struck ten--eleven.