Mistress Penwick flushed warmly and smiled back at him; and her desire for admiration drove her on and on, and she soon forgot all else save the man by her side, and it appeared that no matter how he tried to break the spell of her witchery, he could not leave her for a moment.

It fell out that before three days had passed, they were deep in admiration of each other.  Cedric was racked by doubt and fear, yet never for an instant letting go his faith in Julian.  Constance was happy that Katherine was so diverted, keeping thereby Cedric from any rash moves, and giving herself time to visit the tree that often held so much of importance.  And she managed to outwit the ubiquitous Janet and hailed with joy the day of the great battle when Mistress Penwick was to be removed from her pathway forever.

The disappearance of Adrian Cantemir was not spoken of—­as if ’twere a matter of too small import;—­and yet he hovered ominously in their minds; and Katherine most of all desired to forget her promise and every word she had spoken to him, and Constance understood and would not let her forget, planning night and day to bring them together again....

To look back from the lower terrace at the castle was to see a gorgeous display of blossom.  The ivy-clad walls stood a rich background to the splendour of tinted flower.  Indeed, the scene appeared not unlike an enormous nosegay lying upon a hill of moss.  The night had brought showers, and from every minute projection of twig, leaf or petal glistened limpid drops, some swelling with honey and falling like dew upon the young sward.  The birds twittered ceaselessly, and some young thing preening upon a light blossomy twig scattered down, anon, perfume upon some shy young fawn, and he leapt away frightened by so dainty a bath and plunged knee-deep in crystal pools and sent the stately swans skimming hurriedly to a quiet and sheltered cove.

From the Chapel came indistinctly the sound of the organ in a prelude, it would seem, to the day.  ’Twas Sir Julian’s wont to rise early and draw—­it may be—­inspiration from the full vibrant chords of sweet harmony.

From an upper casement leant forth Mistress Penwick with a face as delicately tinted as the blossoms of the peach that flaunted their beauty at some distance.  She appeared to be arranging violets—­that still sparkled with rain—­in an oblong porcelain box that lay flat upon the casement.  Her white jewelled fingers flitted in and out of the blue depths.  Her small white teeth were but half eclipsed and there fluttered forth from her parted lips a low humming that keyed and blended with the organ.  Her soft white dress enveloped her mould loosely; her long flowing sleeves, prefaced by rare lace, displaying her pink, round arm.  She wore not the look of care; for she had thrown all such evil weight upon one who played in yonder sacred shrine so tranquilly, as if nothing but his own sins rested—­and they but feather-weight—­upon his soul.  On he played, and she arranged her flowers, and up the avenue came horses’ feet and Lady Constance unattended came riding near the castle and called up to the vision of beauty that leant from the window,—­