I desired to tell her that I had never been so happy in my life.  I might have told her that and more, but in her fierce directness she would not permit me.

“There is a maid who sits in one of the tall grey houses of which you speak, or among the moorland farms—­sits and waits for you, and you write to her.  You are always writing—­writing.  It is to that girl.  You will pass away and think no more of Lucia!”

And I—­what could or did I reply?  I think that I did the best, for I made no answer at all, but only drew her so close to me that the adorable chin, being thrown out farther than ever, rested for an instant on my shoulder.

“Lucia,” I said to her—­“not Countess any more—­little Saint Lucy of the Eyes, hear me.  I am but a poor moorland lad, with little skill to speak of love; but with my heart I love you even thus—­and thus—­and thus.”

And I think that she believed, for it comes natural to Galloway to make love well.

In the same moment we heard the sound of voices, and there were Henry and the Count walking to and fro on the terrace above us in the blessed dark, prosing of guns and battues and shooting.

Lucia trembled and drew away from me, but I put my finger to her lip and drew her nearer the wall, where the creepers had turned into a glorious wine-red.  There we stood hushed, not daring to move; but holding close the one to the other as the feet of the promenaders waxed and waned above us.  Their talk of birds and beasts came in wafts of boredom to us, thus standing hand in hand.

I shivered a little, whereat the Countess, putting a hand behind me, drew a fold of her great scarlet cloak round me protectingly as a mother might.  So, with her mouth almost in my ear, she whispered, “This is delightful—­is it not so?  Pray, just hearken to Nicholas:  ’With that I fired.’  ‘Then we tried the covert.’  ‘The lock jammed.’  ’Forty-four brace.’  Listen to the huntsmen!  Shall we startle them with the horn, tra-la?” And she thrilled with laughter in my ear there in the blissful dark, till I had to put that over her mouth which silenced her.

“Hush, Lucy, they will hear!  Be sage, littlest,” I said in Italian, like one who orders, for (as I have said) Galloway even at twenty-three is no dullard in the things of love.

“Poor Nicholas!” she said again.

“Nay, poor Henry, say rather!” said I, as the footsteps drew away to the verge of the terrace, waxing fine and thin as they went farther from us.

“Hear me,” said she.  “I had better tell you now.  Nicholas wishes me greatly to marry one high in power in our own country—­one whose influence would permit him to go back to his home in Russia and live as a prince as before.”

“But you will not—­you cannot—­” I began to say to her.

“Hush!” she said, laughing a little in my ear.  “I certainly shall if you cry out like that”—­for the footsteps were drawing nearer again.  We leaned closer together against the parapet in the little niche where the creepers grew.  And the dark grew more fragrant.  She drew the great cloak about us both, round my head also.  Her own was close to mine, and the touch of her hair thrilled me, quickening yet more the racing of my heart, and making me light-headed like unaccustomed wine.