She did not refuse; indeed, she appeared to have forgotten his presence:  together they crossed the lawn and reached the corner of the house near which the figure had disappeared.  It struck Stafford as strange that the dogs did not bark.  In profound silence they went in the direction the figure had taken, and Stafford presently saw a ruined building, which had evidently been a chapel.  As they approached it the figure came out of it and towards them.  As it passed them, so close that they instinctively drew back, Stafford saw that it was an old man in a dressing-gown; his head was bare, his hair touched the collar of the gown.  His eyes were wide open, and gazing straight in front of him.

Stafford was about to step forward and arrest his progress, when suddenly the girl’s hand seized his and gripped it.

“Hush!” she whispered, with subdued terror.  “It is my father.  He—­yes, he is asleep!  Oh, see, he is asleep!  He will fall—­hurt himself—­”

She, in her turn, was about to spring forward, but Stafford caught her arm.

“No, no, you must not!” he said, in a hurried whisper.  “I think it would be dangerous.  I think he is all right if you let him alone.  He is walking in his sleep.  Don’t speak—­don’t cry out.”

“No, no,” she breathed.  “But it is dreadful.”

Instinctively, unconsciously, she drew closer to Stafford, almost clung to him, watching her father over her shoulder until the figure, with its ghastly, mechanical movement and vacant stare, had passed into the house; then, with a long breath, and with her hands clasping her throat, as if she were stifling, she broke from Stafford and sprang quickly and noiselessly up the steps and disappeared also.  Wondering whether he was awake or dreaming, Stafford waited for over an hour to see if she would appear again; and he was turning away at last, when her figure appeared in the open door-way, like that of a wraith.  She waved her hand to him, then disappeared, and the door closed.

Still asking himself if he were not in a land of dreams, but tingling with the touch of her small hand, with the haunting perfume of the soft black hair, Stafford gained the road and walked towards the inn.

CHAPTER IV.

Ida had followed her father across the terrace, across the hall, lit weirdly by the glow of the sinking fire and the pale moonlight, up the broad stairs, along the corridor to the open door of his room.  He had walked slowly but steadily with his usual gait, and his head bent slightly; though his eyes were wide open, he seemed to see nothing, yet he did not stumble or even hesitate.  Ida followed behind him with absolute noiselessness.  They were both ghostlike in their movements, and the dogs stood and watched them intently, ears erect, and with that gravity in their eyes which dogs wear when they are puzzled.