But Jean was not anxious; he was radiant with happiness.  He seated himself and spoke of love, deep passionate love; so gentle was he, so soft, so courteous, and yet so ardent, that the maiden trembled; when he dared to take her hand she did not withdraw it.  The moment of bliss was brief; a step was heard.  “Hide yourself quickly,” she whispered, “Tita is returning.”  Jean promptly obeyed the injunction.  The old woman arrived with a well-filled wallet, and looked fondly at her young mistress.  The signs of recent agitation struck her.  “What has befallen thee, Hilda?” she cried anxiously.  The girl took her arm and led her seawards.  Jean, watching, could see the start and angry expression of the older, the coaxing, pleading attitude of the younger woman; he could satisfy himself that the resistance of the former was gradually being overcome, and as they returned he saw that the maiden’s victory was indisputable.  She summoned Jean, who was inspected by Tita at first with distrust, then with modified approval.  “You must stay here,” said the maiden earnestly, “closely hidden till nightfall; my absence has been already sufficiently long, and nothing can be done while daylight lasts.”  Bidding him farewell she sped with her guardian towards the tower, while Jean retired to his bushes a prey to fond thoughts and feverish hopes.

Before sundown he saw the tall figure of the sorceress wending landwards.  She did not approach the spring.  Hilda quickly followed with her former companion.  “We have a long journey,” she said, “and short time:  we must start at once.”  Removing all traces of his lair he obeyed without hesitation.  They ascended the steep cliff.  The night was clear, the moon at this hour was bright and lustrous.  “We have three hours,” said the maiden, “ere we leave our guest!”—­she looked archly at Jean as she thus described him—­“it should suffice!” They were now on the heights of Pleinmont; no one was moving, though voices of men and beasts could be plainly heard in the distance.  “They feast to-night to the Gods,” said Hilda; “we need fear only some belated laggard!” The heather was not yet springing, but Jean could see that gorse was on the bloom, which he considered a favourable omen:  they stepped out bravely on the short springy turf.  Tita’s steps were slower than those of the young pair, who were deaf to her calls for delay.  Never to his dying day did Jean forget that happy night-walk.  His soul was poured out in love, and he knew that his love was returned.  He was steeped to the full in joy; no thought of future cares or perils crossed his mind.  They had passed three or four headlands before the girl halted and waited for her attendant, who came up muttering to herself and grumbling; compliments from Jean and caresses from Hilda restored her good humour, and the work of the evening commenced.  “Follow me closely,” said the girl; “let your eye be keen and your step firm:  the descent is no child’s sport.”  Jean looked