Also, the night was very still, save that, afar off, some nightingales were singing in a copse, and, now and again, the voices of the boatmen could be heard on the river and, sometimes, the splash and drip of their oars as they touched the water. [Illustration: "He could hear her words distinctly."--_p_. 506.] The night was so still that, though Sylvia Thorne spoke now in little more than a whisper, he, standing below and gazing up at her, could hear her words distinctly. "You will not go," she murmured; "you will not go, leaving me here. Ah! well, you are truly brave and daring." Then, releasing the tendrils of a passion flower growing round one of the great pillars, with which she had been playing, she held out her hand while continuing: "A wilful man must have his way; but, at least, go now. Farewell. Goodnight." While, as Bevill turned away and went towards the gate, she murmured to herself: "Lord Peterborough should be proud to call you cousin, to have chosen you as his emissary." CHAPTER XIV. Turning to look round once more, and to again salute Sylvia as he reached the gate (at which he found the ancient gardener waiting to let him out and make all fast when he had gone), he saw that the girl still stood upon the balcony and, through the darkness of the night, was looking towards the spot he had now reached. The flare of the candles in the large candelabra within the hall streamed out of the great open door, making a patch of light behind Sylvia and causing her to stand out clearly before his eyes. By this he could perceive that she was leaning against the pillar and looking down towards where he was, and that behind her head the passion flowers gleamed white, as though forming a setting to it. Then, while doubting whether she could see his action, he nevertheless raised his three-cornered hat again, and so passed out into the road between the great gate and the river. Once beyond the gate, however, he paused, and, dropping his hand to his sash, took his sword-handle in it and softly drew the blade up and down in the sheath to make sure that it ran loose and free. "Francbois," he said to himself as he did so. "Francbois, Emile Francbois! 'Tis strange I did not recall his name before. And he is here in Liége. Also, he loves Sylvia, and would be loved by her. So, so; that way trouble may come. Od's heart!--soon we shall have as good a comedy here--or will it be a tragi-comedy?--as ever George Farquhar or Mrs. Centlivre has written. Well, we will see to it." Continuing his way towards the "Gouden Leeuw," and continuing it warily too, for he knew not whether from behind some wall, either of warehouse or solid, comfortable mansion, he might not see in the moonlight a pair of dark eyes glinting at him, or the phosphorescent sparkle of a rapier's blade that an instant later might be making trial of his coat's thickness, he also continued to muse.