“That is well at last. Now mark your instructions. Come here--bend your head to me. There will be two of us; we shall be waiting in the sunk garden, in the shadows of the trees below the terrace, but not in sight of it. Lead him that way from the wicket; it is very private. Before you pass, I shall step out and challenge you both. There will be an altercation between us, as much to take him off his guard as for the benefit of the witness lurking in the background. It is he, you understand, who is brought to testify to the real cause of quarrel--such as he thinks it already--a dispute about you. He will do what he is hired to do while we wrangle; but by then, if you wish it, you may have escaped. Is it all clear?” “Yes, quite.” “And you will not fail me?” “No.” He searched her quivering face, with its heavy eyelids, all wet and swollen, intently for a little; then softly touched one of the poor ears he had so cruelly ill-used. “Ma pauvre petite!” he said pitifully: “ma pauvre petite!” The sobs came faster and thicker; he drew her gently towards him, and whispered: “Why would you rouse the devil in me? Did it hurt so much?” She clung about his neck. “Come,” he said: “let’s sit yonder. There’s no one in the house but Gaspare.” With lips like salve he touched the wounded flesh. “Chère amie--Fanchette--no, I’ll not loose you!” Over his shoulder the white figure on the cross blazed in her opened eyes. “Not here,” she whispered, hurried and febrile--“not here. Take me where he cannot see us.” CHAPTER XXVII. THE CRY IN THE GARDEN The clocks were pointing near to midnight; the village was long silent; the flurry of the day had subsided everywhere, and sleep and quiet had usurped throughout the palace the place of tumult. Only in that one remote corner above the terrace, where the bridal myrtles grew, was a shrouded light still burning, unquenchable, it seemed, as the steadfast spark that glows before a shrine. And there was the young wakeful postulant for Love’s service, awaiting, half rapt, half fearful, the mystic call. Somewhere in the shadows there was a watch ticking. Its tiny pulse beat out the seconds in a fury to outstrip the lagging hours; for it had been worn near its mistress’s heart, and the throb of its hairspring had fallen into time with the fever of impatience it had touched there. But at length the end was in sight, and the round of long-drawn minutes rolled up to the starward-pointing hands. Isabella’s own hands were cold, as she lifted for the last time the little restless engine to consult it.