Night had come richly laden with the perfume of many flowers, that the darkness seemed to make more pungent, and more distinct to the ear the night sounds.  There was no moon, and the thick foliage produced a deep, dark density, mysterious and sweet.  The grand terraces about the castle were still, save for the buzz of summer insects and the low, sleepy twittering of birds.  There was not a star to be seen and only the glow-worm lent an occasional lilliputian effulgence to the great, dark world.  All within the castle appeared to have retired earlier than usual; perhaps for the purpose of an earlier awakening, as their Graces of Ellswold were to set out early on the morrow morning, aiming to make some great distance on their journey before the heat of midday.  At a quarter after the hour of ten Janet had kissed her mistress, leaning over her pillow with even more affection than usual.

“Good-night, my Lambkin, my child, my precious maid—­good-night and God bless thee!” then snuffed the candles and left her.

Katherine gave no thought to regret, indeed she went so far as to smile at Janet’s consternation, when she should find out that for once her “Lambkin” had fooled her.  Quickly she leapt from her bed and dressed herself for the first time alone.  Though her fingers were deft and skillful at the tapestry frame, and neat and clever at limning, they were slow and bungling when drawing together the laces of her girdle, indeed ’twas very insecurely done, and when she was dressed she had forgotten her stays, and but for the lateness of the hour would have disrobed and donned them.  It seemed like an endless task to try and dress again by the poor light of the single candle, screened by her best sunshade in the far corner of the room.  She had donned a pale, shimmering brocade.  About her neck she twined her mother’s pearls, and took up the opal shoulder knot of Cedric’s mother’s and was about to fasten it when some subtle thought stole the desire from her, and she laid it back in the casket with a sigh.  Instead, she placed a bunch of jasmine as her shoulder-brooch, and extinguishing the light went forth to meet her husband by the sun-dial.

She passed out by the door that led on to a small balcony and a-down the flight of outside stairs that were covered with vines in purple bloom.  Although the darkness was almost impenetrable, she could distinguish a form waiting at the foot of the stair.  For an instant she paused and whispered timourously,—­

“Who art thou?”

“Julian,” came as softly back, and a white hand was stretched out to her.  Down she flew, intrepid.

“Would I send another to meet thee; didst thou think to turn back, my Katherine?”

“Nay, I should not have turned back; but ’twas assuring to hear thy name.  I am not afraid, yet—­yet I tremble.”

“And ’tis sweet of thee so to do; ’tis maidenly that thou shouldst; ’tis the way of woman.  Thou art not afraid, yet thou dost tremble; thou dost try to be brave, yet thou must be assured, and I am here by thy side to assure thee ever,” he whispered in her ear.