John Hammond went to his room, which was on the same side of the house as her ladyship’s; but he was in no disposition for sleep.  He opened the casement, and stood looking out upon the moonlit lake and the quiet village, where one solitary light shone like a faint star in a cottage window, amidst that little cluster of houses by the old church, once known as Kirktown.  Beyond the village rose gentle slopes, crowned with foliage, and above those wooded crests appeared the grand outline of the hills, surrounding and guarding Easedale’s lovely valley, as the hills surrounded Jerusalem of old.

He looked at that delicious landscape with eyes that hardly saw its beauty.  The image of a lovely face came between him and all the glory of earth and sky.

‘I think she likes me,’ he was saying to himself.  ’There was a look in her eyes to-night that told me the time was come when——­’

The thought died unfinished in his brain.  Through the silent house, across the placid lake, there rang a wild, shrill cry that froze the blood in his veins, or seemed so to freeze it—­a shriek of agony, and in a woman’s voice.  It rang out from an open window near his own.  The sound seemed close to his ear.

CHAPTER X.

‘O BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.’

Only for an instant did John Hammond stand motionless after hearing that unearthly shriek.  In the next moment he rushed into the corridor, expecting to hear the sound repeated, to find himself face to face with some midnight robber, whose presence had caused that wild cry of alarm.  But in the corridor all was silent as the grave.  No open door suggested the entrance of an intruder.  The dimly-burning lamps showed only the long empty gallery.  He stood still for a few moments listening for voices, footsteps, the rustle of garments:  but there was nothing.

Nothing?  Yes, a groan, a long-drawn moaning sound, as of infinite pain.  This time there was no doubt as to the direction from which the sound came.  It came from Lady Maulevrier’s room.  The door was ajar, and he could see the faint light of the night-lamp within.  That fearful cry had come from her ladyship’s room.  She was in peril or pain of some kind.

Convinced of this one fact, Mr. Hammond had not an instant’s hesitation.  He pushed open the door without compunction, and entered the room, prepared to behold some terrible scene.

But all was quiet as death itself.  No midnight burglar had violated the sanctity of Lady Maulevrier’s apartment.  The soft, steady light of the night-lamp shone on the face of the sleeper.  Yes, all was quiet in the room, but not in that sleeper’s soul.  The broad white brow was painfully contracted, the lips drawn down and distorted, the delicate hand, half hidden by the deep Valenciennes ruffle, clutched the coverlet with convulsive force.  Sigh after sigh burst from the agitated breast.  John Hammond gazed upon the sleeper in an agony of apprehension, uncertain what to do.  Was this dreaming only; or was it some kind of seizure which called for medical aid?  At her ladyship’s age the idea of paralysis was not too improbable for belief.  If this was a dream, then indeed the visions of Lady Maulevrier’s head upon her bed were more terrible than the dreams of common mortals.