At night all the eastern side of the palace, where it faced upon the sunk gardens, was veiled in deep shadow. Only in one place, above a secluded myrtle-grown terrace, a faintly luminous oblong showed where secret wakefulness kept still its vigil in a lighted room. The hangings in the window parted, revealing momentarily a running shaft of gold, and a man stepped forth, paused an instant on the balcony, then climbed its stone parapet and dropped to the turf beneath. Even as he alighted, another form, that of a “slim, enamoured, sweet-fleshed girl,” appeared, catching light draperies about its neck and bosom, in the opening, and, letting the curtains fall to behind it, stood, ghostly-pale in the darkness, leaning down. “O, love! You are not hurt?” He laughed, low and musical. As she leaned, he could reach even up to her shoulders with his hands. “Only in my vanity.” “O! why?” “That I should have outstayed my welcome.” “Sweet, not your welcome, but my terror.” “Then, if I’ve outstayed it, your terror’s gone?” “Alas, no! This night has made it tenfold. It increases with every minute that you linger.” “Why, Isabel, what’s to fear? All the world’s asleep.” “Is there nothing to fear indeed?” “Nothing, on my soul.” “Will you not go, dear love?” “Not while you ask me. See how your voice holds me in its silken leash.” “I will not speak, then.” “So I shall know you weary of me? Well, I will go.” “No, stay a little. I cannot spare you to the dark. There is something fearful in it. The trees look as if they were watching us. Everything seems as if it draws near.” It was one of those crystal-clear nights which give the impression as of an unnaturally close approach of all objects, earthly and celestial. There was no moon, but every star was like a sharp splint of light cut upon a background of purple glass. Austere, immense, the inky masses of the ilexes seemed, in their apparent contiguity, as if their very shadows had taken root, filling the vacant spaces of the lawn between with menacing growth. A night when all things seemed to stop and listen, as in the deep-midmost of sleep when breathing almost ceases, and the soul hangs at the neutral poise between life and death. “Even the stars,” he said--“and most that beautiful bright one that stoops to guide us on our way. Look to the North, faint heart.” She caught his two wandering hands in hers, and, imprisoning them, brushed them with kisses as soft as flowers. “Home,” she whispered--“‘where the strange thing is’--where we can love and be good. O, sweet! I would you could sing to me!” “Shall I sing?” “It is not the time of nightingales. No, I dare not let you.” “As well, perhaps. I have been out of tune of late.” “Ah me! Were you so sick at heart?” “Have I not told you?” “Tell it me all again a thousand times; and a thousand times my tears shall drop like hot rain upon that winter, until not a speck of frost is left to upbraid me.”