The awesome, brooding stillness, the splendour of the rising moon, the mystery of the surrounding landscape, and all the magic of this early midsummer night wrought in him a pensive melancholy, a growing discontent of himself and the latter years, and he luxuriated in a consciousness of his infinite unworthiness. Thus, with wistful gaze upon the full-orbed moon, Sir John had already mentally forsworn the world, the flesh and the devil, when he was roused suddenly by a rustling of leaves near by and the sharp crack of a dried twig; next moment he was beside his horse and had whipped forth, cocked and levelled one of his travelling pistols. “Qui va la?” he demanded, and then in English: “Come out! Show yourself, or I fire!” “Don’t!” cried a voice. “Don’t!” The leaves parted suddenly, and Sir John beheld a woman within a yard of him; majestically tall she was, and muffled in the long folds of a coarse cloak, beneath whose shadowy hood he glimpsed the pale oval of a face and a single strand of curling hair darkly innocent of powder. Sir John lowered the pistol and, removing his hat, bowed. “Welcome, Phyllida!” said he. “That ain’t my name,” she answered. “Then it should be, for ’tis a charming name and suits you.” “You—you’m English, sir?” she questioned. “I thank God!” he answered gravely. “Then—oh, I am safe!” she sighed, and sinking upon the grassy bank, hid her face in her hands. “Safe?” he repeated, touching her bowed head very gently. “Never doubt it, child—all heaven be my witness. ’Tis easy to guess you English also, and of the sweet south country, I think?” At this she raised her head and he saw a handsome face framed in dark, rebellious curls, eyes wide and innocent, and a vivid, full-lipped mouth. “O sir, ye du be a mortal clever guesser—I were born in Sussex!” she answered. “Sussex?” murmured Sir John. “Seely Sussex! I was born there too, ’twixt the sheltering arms of Firle and Windover.... The gentle South Downs ... I loved every velvet slope of them! I mind the sweet, warm scent of the wild thyme, and the dance of the scabious flowers in the wind ... ’tis years since I saw them last.” “But the wild thyme is still sweet i’ the sun, sir, an’ the scabious flowers do be a-noddin’ an’ beckonin’ as we sit here.” “Beckoning, child? ’Tis a sweet thought! Beckoning me back to England ... to the reverent stillness of the immemorial hills ... my loved Downs! Beckoning me back to the old house that has stood empty so long! Paris behind me, London before me ... but deep in my heart a memory of the silent Downs ... and of a better living.” “’Ee du talk tur’ble strange, sir!” she exclaimed, her wide gaze searching his wistful features. “’Tis the moon, child—blame the moon! Though her Lunatic Majesty doth usually afflict me with a poetic fervour that erupts in somewhat indifferent verse. But what o’ yourself, child? Whence are you—what do you so far from home?”