“Countess!” I said, searching for words to thrill her heart as mine was thrilled already.

“Monsieur!” she replied, and drew away the cloak a little, making to leave me, but not as one that really intends to go.

“Lucia,” I said hastily, “dear Lucy—­”

“Ah!” she said, and drew the cloak about us again.

And what we said after that, is no matter to any.

But we forgot, marvel at it who will, to hearken to the footsteps that came and went.  They were to us meaningless as the lapse of the waves on the shore, pattering an accompaniment above the soft sibilance of our whispered talk, making our converse sweeter.

Yet we had done well to listen a little.

“...  I think it went in there,” said the voice of the Count, very near to us and just above our heads.  “I judge it was a white owl.”

“I shall try to get it for the Countess!” said Henry.

Then I heard the most unmistakable, and upon occasion also the most thrilling, of sounds—­the clicking of a well-oiled lock.  My heart leapt within me—­no longer flying in swift, light fashion like footsteps running, but bounding madly in great leaps.

Silently I swept the Countess behind me into the recess of the niche, forcing her down upon the stone seat, and bending my body like a shield over her.

In a moment Henry’s piece crashed close at my ear, a keen pain ran like molten lead down my arm; and, spite of my hand upon her lips, Lucia gave a little cry.  “I think I got it that time!” I heard Henry’s voice say.  “Count, run round and see.  I shall go this way.”

“Run, Lucy,” I whispered, “they are coming.  They must not find you.”

“But you are hurt?” she said anxiously.

“No,” I said, lying to her, as a man does so easily to a woman.  “I am not at all hurt.  Have I hurt you?”

For I had thrust her behind me with all my might.

“I cannot tell yet whether you have hurt me or not,” she said.  “You men of the North are too strong!”

“But they come.  Run, Lucy, beloved!” I said.

CHAPTER XII

A NIGHT ASSAULT

And she melted into the night, swiftly as a bird goes.  Then I became aware of flying footsteps.  It seemed that I had better not be found there, lest I should compromise the Countess with her brother, and find myself with a duel upon my hands in addition to my other embarrassments.  So I set my toes upon the little projections of the stone parapet, taking advantage of the hooks which confined the creepers, and clutching desperately with my hands, so that I scrambled to the top just as the Count and Henry met below.

“Strike a light, Count,” I heard Henry say; “I am sure I hit something.  I heard a cry.”

A light flamed up.  There was the rustling noise of the broad leaves of the creeper being pushed aside.