That night Harry could not sleep for the harassing problem of the continued defence of the castle. True, his object had been gained; Prince Eugene had got off in safety; he himself had fought a good fight; but it was clear that unless help came soon his defence must be broken through by sheer force of numbers. He was resolved to die rather than fall a captive into Aglionby’s hands; but the longing for life was strong within him. He thought of all that had passed during the two years since his meeting with Lord Godolphin: the strange vicissitudes, the ups and downs of fortune; the inexplicable enmity of Mr. Berkeley; his pleasant relations with Mynheer Grootz and the ladies of Lindendaal; the chances which had served him so well and brought him so near the realization of his dearest longings. It was hard to think that at this moment, when the confederate army under the greatest generals of the age was moving towards events of high moment, he should be cut off in this obscure spot and robbed of the opportunity to which he had looked forward so eagerly. He did not think only of himself. He remembered his companions—Fanshawe, Buckley, the faithful Max, the brave troopers whose fate was linked with his. Their lot was worse than his, for they had ties—parents, children, relatives, to whom they were dear: he himself was alone in the world. Apart from Mynheer Grootz, who he knew loved him; Madame de Vaudrey, whose feeling for him was warm; Sherebiah, whose affection was perhaps the closest of all; there was no one to be interested in his welfare. Thinking of Madame de Vaudrey he thought of her daughter, and was dimly conscious that he would have liked to stand well in her eyes—to break through that cold reserve of manner she had always shown to him, and win from her one look or word of approval. Fanshawe, he knew, still nourished a hope of winning her; it seemed to depend on him whether Fanshawe should have another chance. He lay awake, thus musing, and gazing at a star that shone through the loophole in the wall. By and by he felt a strange uneasiness, unconnected with his previous train of thought. All was quiet; not even the hoot of an owl broke the stillness. Unable to account for his feeling, he rose and went to the top of the keep. "Is all well?" he asked the sentry there. "All is well, Monsieur." "You have seen or heard nothing?" "Nothing, Monsieur, but the scurry of rabbits in the fosse." "Good-night!"