At length he blew out his candle. But when he glanced round again he found he could still see the polished, reflecting surface of the glass, and he buried his face under the bed-clothes. The night was warm, with an oppressive, sultry stillness, and in a little while he became bathed in perspiration and was obliged once more to put his head out on the pillow. Then he got up and turned the looking-glass towards the wall. At last, through sheer exhaustion, he fell asleep, and his sleep grew deeper and deeper, though, from his tossed limbs and restless movements, it might have been gathered that it brought him little peace. Outside, on the landing, a clock struck;――and Grif stirred uneasily. It was perhaps some twenty minutes later when he sat up in bed. Noiselessly, yet without hesitation, the slight, pallid figure threw back the sheet and coverlet, and got out on to the floor. He went with wide, yet sightless, eyes straight to the door, and turned the handle. Soundlessly he stole downstairs, though not alone, for Pouncer was following him――Pouncer quite awake, and not understanding in the least the reason for this nocturnal ramble. Grif unlocked and unchained the hall-door, and went out, Pouncer still following closely on his heels. And just in time, for Grif pulled the door behind him and the latch clicked. He walked across the grass in the moonlight. The troubled look had left his face, and he even smiled a little. The sound of a fitful wind that had arisen washed through his dreams, like the tide of an enchanted sea, and the sound was once more beautiful, and seemed to lead him on and on. He passed the croquet-lawn and moved down the wooded slope towards the road. The long wet grass reached above his ankles, and he seemed to be guided by an invisible hand as he threaded his way between the trees, while he listened to the song of the night:―― Swift, in the light of the stars, Comes our darling, our sweet: White on the dark green grass, White are his feet. Under the wrinkled old moon, See, he pauses and stands: Dew on his dark dim hair, Dew on his hands. Moonlight and starlight fall Soft on his lifted face―― Lord of this kingdom of leaves, Prince of this place! Sing to our little prince! Our angel, our lovely boy! Pipe with a silver flute A hymn of joy, To welcome him into his kingdom Of fountain and grove and lawn: Pipe till the stars grow dim In the light of dawn. Prince Grif and his orange Pouncer, That truest and dearest friend―― But hush!――the birds are awaking, Our song must end.