“Be it so then!” she cried almost fiercely. “I promise, and be the consequences on your own head.” His whole face flushed with joy. “I accept them. And when is that happy time to come?” “Who knows! What must be done, had best be done quickly; but I tell thee it were safer to play with the lightning's chain than tamper with what thou art about to do.” “I take the risk! Will you raise your mask now?” “No, no--I cannot! But yet, I may before the sun rises. My face”--with bitter scorn--“shows better by darkness than by daylight. Will you be out to see, the grand illumination.” “Most certainly.” “Then meet me here an hour after midnight, and the face so long hidden shall be revealed. But, once again, on the threshold of doom, I entreat you to pause.” “There is no such word for me!” he fiercely and exultingly cried. “I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it! And, madame, if, at last, you discover my love is changeless as fate itself, then--then may I not dare to hope for a return?” “Yes; then you may hope,” she said, with cold mockery. “If your love survives the sight, it will be mighty, indeed, and well worthy a return.” “And you will return it?” “I will.” “You will be my wife?” “With all my heart!” “My darling!” he cried, rapturously--“for you are mine already--how can I ever thank you for this? If a whole lifetime devoted and consecrated to your happiness can repay you, it shall be yours!” During this rhapsody, her hand had been on the handle of the door. Now she turned it. “Good-night, Mr. Ormiston,” she said, and vanished. CHAPTER VII. THE EARL'S BARGE.