Then, from the far side of the court, appeared another figure--a woman's. She swept across the gleaming marble pavement with the grace of a goddess and the silence of a ghost, and soon I knew who she was, for with that superb face turned towards me, what light there was fell directly upon it. This was the woman who had come to Poyning's help on the day of his accident, whom he called the Princess Helene, Philipson's plighted queen. Now followed the queerest part of the whole affair. To say I was embarrassed would be scarcely correct: it frightened me. With a little cry of joy the woman ran up to Poyning and folded him in her arms and kissed him passionately on the lips. Poyning reached up his arms, and placed them round her neck, and kissed her again; and there the pair remained, locked in one another's embrace, for fully a minute. I imagine that no scene in which that superb creature took part could appear undignified, or this would have appeared so--even ludicrous, for the crown of Poyning's head could hardly have reached higher than the level of her lips, and as she stooped to kiss him he seemed literally lost in the loose shimmer of her white robe. I could hear nothing of what Poyning said, if he said anything, but from her came the repeated cry, accented in an ecstasy of tenderness: 'My little one! My little one!' They withdrew into the shadow of the domed pavilion, and I heard their voices in low, earnest talk. I had seen enough--too much; I dropped noiselessly into the street and stood there under the wall, quivering with astonishment and alarm.