“Indeed!” cried he, ruffled out of his usual commanding urbanity.—Trying to smile he found himself sneering. “Indeed? Aha, very good, I declare! It is worth while living on a tower to be able to retain those confiding views of life! It has never struck you, I suppose—the stars are doubtless never in the least irregular in their courses, but young and charming widows have little ways of their own—it has never struck you that this forbidden wilderness might be an ideal spot for rendezvous?” Sir David shot at the speaker a look very unlike that far-off indifferent glance which was all he had hitherto vouchsafed him. This sudden, steel-bright, concentrated gaze was like the baring of a blade. Dim stories of the recluse’s romantic and violent youth began to stir in Harcourt’s memory. He straightened his own sturdy figure and the instinctive hot defiance of the fighter at the first hint of an opposing spirit ran tingling to his stiffening muscles. So, for a quick-breathing moment, they fixed each other. Then, through the drowsy humming summer stillness rang from within the Herb-Garden the note of Herrick’s singing voice: “Go, lovely rose and, interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her too, she must not be, Longer flowing, longer free——” The melody broke off. There was a burst of laughter; and then Ellinor’s voice, with an unusual sound of young merriment in it, sprang up into hearing as a crystal fountain springs into sight: “Foolish boy, there are no roses here!” Sir David started. His eyes remained fixed, but they no longer saw. In yet another moment he had turned away and was gone, leaving Colonel Harcourt staring after him. “’Pon my life,” said the _roué_ to himself, “the woman was right—My God, he’s mad for her!” Upon a second and more composed thought, he began to chuckle and feel his own personality resume its lost importance. “The situation is becoming interesting,” he thought. His eye fell on the key, forgotten in the lock and he broke into a short laugh. He then unlocked the gate, slipped the key into his pocket and walked into the garden. “I had no idea,” he said, addressing the balm beds, as he passed them, “that I could be such a useful friend to my Lady.” CHAPTER V SILENT NIGHT THE REFUGE My life has crept so long on a broken wing Thro’ cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs ... and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns Over Orion’s grave low down in the west. —TENNYSON.