now with what glee I climbed crags and cliffs, singing and dancing along. Aha! who is this in monkish garb that rises up before me in the moonlight? Old Matteo, as I live! Matteo! Matteo the betrayer! He sees me, he turns, he flees. Ha! ha! what feeble steps! I hear him. How he pants for breath! With one fierce leap I am on him. Ho! ho! my hand is on his old throat. How he struggles as I force him to the edge of the cliff! How he clings to me! 'Mercy! mercy!' he screams. Mercy? To him who had robbed me of my fair model? He could not tell any more tales after I had finished with him. From the cliff----" The artist stopped abruptly, and assumed a listening air. Along the gravel path outside came the tread of many feet approaching the place of my captivity. My heart throbbed wildly with hope, for I made certain that it was the Baronet and my uncle coming to my rescue. It was not so, however. Sounds of laughter, the rough voices of men mingling with the sweeter tones of women, floated upward to our ears, and I knew then that it was the party returning from the vicarage. They passed quickly beneath the window of my prison--so quickly that I had scarcely time to realise the situation--and by and by were standing, so I judged, on the lawn at the rear of the Abbey. Then came a silence, followed by the twanging of strings, the faint puffings of wind instruments, and such sounds as are usually the prelude to music, and I knew that they were going to sing some carols for the edification of the Baronet and the other tenants of the Abbey. I glanced at the artist. Should I give one loud shout for aid? I hesitated, lest the cry should cause him to sheath his dagger in my breast. I resolved first to make one more attempt to burst my bonds, and, exerting all my strength, I strained desperately at the twisted silk, plunging forward as far as its limited length would allow, careless almost as to whether the eyes of the artist were on me or not. And now uprose an outburst of instrumental melody which lasted for a minute or so, and then, as the harmony subsided into fainter keys, the carol began. It was a solo. Whose tones were those that now rose so clear and silvery on the still, frosty air? Was I doomed to die with Daphne's voice ringing in my ears? She thought, perhaps, that I was in the library listening to her voice, and she was singing with more than ordinary power and sweetness. How quickly her joy would have turned to terror had she but known my real situation!