"To-morrow you shall know all," replied the earl, with one of his crafty smiles, as he turned and left her. Slowly passed the hours, and they were hours of agony to Murielle. She knew not how much, or how little, was known to her family of late events, but that they suspected something her sudden seclusion fully evinced. What would be the sequel? The hours were tolled in succession from the spire of the church of St. Genevieve--ten, eleven, and at last twelve--_midnight_. So certainly as these hours struck, Gray would come and find himself deluded. He would _now_ be in the garden--now at the arbour--with his eyes anxiously fixed on her window, and she--a sudden emotion of rage filled her heart--rage that they should arrogate such power over her, and dare to treat her like a child; but this gust did not last long, and was followed by a shower of tears. She rushed to the iron gratings of her windows, and strove to shake them with her tender little hands. There was no escape, no hope, no succour, and as the last stroke of twelve reverberated in her heart and died away, life seemed to die with it. Then came a sound upon the night wind. It was the clamour of voices, mingled with the clash of weapons; and next there spread upon the darkness a red and lurid light, that wavered on the gloomy walls of the Canonry, that lit up the buttresses of the Church of St. Genevieve, and the wainscoting of her room. What did all this portend? Where was Patrick Gray, her world, her all, now more than ever her Alpha and Omega? Was he beset by the Douglases? Oh, if so, she would soon learn to abhor her own name. She muffled her face and ears in her skirt, to shut out sight and sound, for both seemed to portend but death and woe. When she looked up again the light had disappeared, all was dark, and all was still, save the beating of her heart, and the throbbing of her temples. * * * * * Let us return to Sir Patrick Gray. He made all his arrangements with the prudence and rapidity of a soldier. He had his horse (his favourite roan) prepared, and carefully saddled; he had procured a stout nag, with a lady's pad, for Murielle, and he acquainted himself thoroughly with the route to be pursued by Op Andel and Alm Kerque to Altena. Then he waited with impatience for midnight, the time that would give him freely and for ever his bride, his wife, his long-loved Murielle, despite the wiles, the overweening power, and the unrelenting treachery of Douglas and his adherents.