Miss Laury shuddered, but so dark and profound are the mysteries of human nature, ever allying vice with virtue, that I fear this bloody proof of her master’s love brought to her heart more rapture than horror. She said not a word, for now Zamorna’s arms were again folded round her, and again he was soothing her to tranquillity by endearments and caresses that far away removed all thought of the world, all past pangs of shame, all cold doubts, all weariness, all heart-sickness resulting from hope long deferred. He had told her that she was his first love, and now she seemed tempted to believe that she was his only love. Strong-minded beyond her sex; active, energetic, and accomplished in all other points of view, here she was as weak as a child. She lost her identity; her very life was swallowed up in that of another. There came a knock to the door. Zamorna rose and opened it. His valet stood without. ‘Might I speak with Your Grace in the anteroom?’ asked Monsieur Rosier in somewhat of a hurried tone. The duke followed him out. ‘What do you want with me, sir? Anything the matter?’ ‘I was walking through the passage two minutes since when I heard a step on the stairs: a light step as if of a very small foot. I turned, and there was a lady coming down.’ ‘Well, did you know her?’ ‘I did. I stood in the shade, screened by a pillar, and she passed very near without observing me. I saw her distinctly, and it was—’ ‘Who, sir?’ ‘The duchess!’ There was a pause which was closed by a clear and remarkably prolonged whistle from the duke. He took a leisurely turn through the room. ‘Mrs. Irving, the wife of a minister in the north! A satirical hit at myself! What can have brought her? Anxiety about her invaluable husband! Could not bear any longer without him: obliged to set off to see what he was doing. It’s as well Rosier told me, however. What shall I do? I must not be angry; she can’t do with that sort of thing just now.’ Ceasing his soliloquy, the duke turned again to his valet: ‘Which room did Her Grace go into?’ ‘The drawing-room, my lord. She’s there now.’ Zamorna left the room. Softly unclosing the drawing-room door he perceived the lady by the hearth. Her back was towards him, but there could be no mistake. The whole turn of form, the style of dress, the curled auburn head: all were attributes but of one person. He closed the door as noiselessly as he had opened it and stole forwards. Her attention was absorbed in a book she had picked up. As he stood unobserved behind her he could see that her eyes rested on the flyleaf, where was written in his own hand: Holy St. Cyprian! thy waters stray With still and solemn tone; And fast my bright hours pass away And somewhat throws a shadow grey, Even as twilight closes day, Upon thy waters lone.