A stealthy step, yet not that of thief or burglar; a fairy footfall, rather, which was music to his ear.  His heart leaped up to tell him that on the other side of the door was Harry Trevethick.  He held his breath, and trembled—­not for fear.  Was it possible that, knowing he was sitting there alone, she had come down of her own choice to bear him company?  Had her father told her something—­some glad tidings which she could not keep from her lover even for a night?  Or, filled with sweet dreams of him, as he of her, had she risen in her sleep, and been drawn involuntarily toward him by the loadstone of love?  But—­hark!  The bolt that fastened the house-door was softly drawn, and the latch gently lifted.  What could that mean?  Why was she thus going forth alone, and clandestinely, at midnight?  His heart beat faster than ever.  For an instant all that he had read or heard from his wild companions, and what he had himself believed until he came to Gethin, of the wiles and inconstancy of woman, flashed upon his mind.  Had he, bred in the town, and familiar with all the ways of vice, been flattered and hoodwinked by a country wanton?  Impossible.  For, though there were no virtue in the world, he felt assured that Harry loved him, and him alone.  She must be walking in her sleep.  Softly, but very swiftly, he left the parlor, and hurried to the front-door.  It was closed, but unfastened.  He opened it, and looked out.  All was as light as day, and yet so different.  Every object in the street, every stone in the cottage opposite, stood out distinct and clear, but bathed in a pale and ghostly atmosphere.  The distant murmur of the sea came to him like the sigh of one just freed from pain.  Nothing else was to be heard; no human tread disturbed the midnight stillness; but along the winding road that led to Turlock he caught the far-off flutter of a woman’s dress.  She was going at rapid speed, and the next moment had turned the corner, but not before he had recognized his Harry; and, closing the inn door softly behind him, he started after her like an arrow from the bow.

The scene of this pursuit was strange and weird enough, had Richard possessed eyes for any thing but the object of it.  The sky was without a cloud, and the sea—­which showed on its cold blue surface a broad and shining path where the moon-beams lay—­without a ripple.  On shore there was even less of motion.  The bramble that threw its slender shadow on the road moved not a twig.  Nature, green and pale, seemed to be cast in an enchanted sleep, and even to suspend her breathing.  From the point Richard had reached he could see the road stretching for a full mile, like a white ribbon, save in the middle, where it dipped between high banks.  It led to Turlock only, but at this place a foot-path struck across the fields to the Fairies’ Bower.  To his astonishment, though indeed he had scarcely capacity enough for further wonder, Harry took this path; he saw her climb