It must have been the wind, that faint sound which had seemed to find an echo in the beating of his heart. He drew aside the heavy window-curtains. Outside in the cool moonlight he saw the arms of the great trees swaying to and fro; below these the desolate ruins of the old church; all was quiet and deserted. There was the dismantled altar,--it was surely a trick of the moonlight and the trees, that shadowy semblance of a woman kneeling out there in the night, with wild hair, and arms cast about the broken cross, overturned this half century? Yes, it was a shadow surely; for a cloud passed before the silver face of the half-moon, and when it had floated by, the shadow of a female figure had vanished. He dropped the curtain and turned with a sigh of relief from the mysterious half-light, with its revelations of deserted chapels and uncared-for altars, its shattered cross and phantom penitent. Inside his small domicile was warmth and light; and to drive away the cold, nervous feeling which had crept about him like an invisible network, he again took up the little parchment journal. Again he seated himself, and turned the first leaf. As he read he smiled, and occasionally turned over the sheets to see how many more pages remained to be perused. Presently the smile faded from his face; and the flames on the hearth burnt low and finally died, choked by the gray ashes. And still Graham turned the pages of the little journal with cold fingers. The lamp grew dim, and the moon paled and sank beneath the horizon; the chill morning twilight crept betwixt the hangings, and showed him sitting cold and motionless to the slow-coming dawn. The last page of the journal had been turned long since; but he still held the book open, his eyes fixed on the final words. CHAPTER XI. "Dearer than woman’s love Is yonder sunset fading in the sky!"