Below her lay the garden bathed in quiet light. Beyond the shadow close beneath her window she could see clearly the expanse of turf, the gravel paths, the flower beds, all softly illumined in the moon-rays. Very still she watched, believing there was something about to happen, yet unknowing what it might be. At what exact moment a figure emerged from the shadow below her window Brigid knew not; suddenly she saw it, dark-robed, standing on the turf. For the space of a heart’s beat the thought of some earth-bound spirit, some poor wandering ghost flashed to her mind, caused her a second’s tremor. Yet a tremor succeeded verily by a greater shock. The figure turned, glanced momentarily towards the windows of the castle. Brigid saw the face clearly outlined in the moonlight, saw, too, in the movement one fearful of detection. Swift as lightning she turned towards the room, threw garments upon herself with never a thought to their careful donning, slipped down the stairs and out into the soft June night. Here the garden lay silent, slumbering, no hint of restless figure to disturb its peace. Some might have believed themselves dreaming, illusioned, yet Brigid was very sure of her wakefulness, her sanity. Her mind brought quick to bear on possibilities she bethought her of the wicket gate beyond the lime trees, which led to the tiny copse fringing at that part the parkland. It would afford cover to one desirous of crossing the park unperceived by any watcher from the castle. Brigid entered the copse. Here it was nearly dark, the moon-rays struggling fitfully through the thick-leaved branches overhead. Hastening, yet warily, fearful of coming too close upon the pursued and thereby discovering her pursuit, she made her way along the path, her ears alert to catch the sound of snapped twig ahead. Fearing imprudence she somewhat overdid her care, since, reaching the edge of the copse, she saw the figure far across the parkland, vanishing up the distant rise.