He paused and gazed at her before he replied: 

“I in the castle late last night?  Why, most certainly not!  Why ever should you ask me such a question, my love?”

“Because if you were not in the castle last night—­”

“Well?”

“I met your ‘fetch,’ as the country people would call it.”

“My—­I beg your pardon.”

“Your ‘fetch,’ your double, your spectre, your spirit, whatever you may call it.”

“Whatever do you mean, Salome?”

“Shall I tell you all about it?”

“Of course—­yes, do.”

Miss Levison began and related all the circumstances in detail of her night visit to her father’s room, and her meeting with an appearance which she took to be that of her betrothed husband, but which, on being called by her, instantly vanished.

Lord Arondelle mused for awhile.  Miss Levison gazed on him in anxious suspense for a few minutes, and then inquired: 

“What do you think of it?”

“My love, if I were a transcendental visionary, I might say, that at the hour you saw my image before you, my thoughts, my mind, my spirit, whatever you choose to call my inner self, was actually with you, and so became visible to you; but—­” he paused.

“But—­what?” she inquired.

“Not being a transcendentalist or a visionary, I am forced to the conclusion that what you thought you saw, was, really nothing but an optical illusion!”

“You think that?”

“Indeed I do!”

“I assure you, that the image seemed as real, as substantial, and as solid to me then as you do now.”

“No doubt of it!  Optical illusions always seem very real—­perfectly real.”

“It was an optical illusion then!  That is settled!  And now!” exclaimed Salome.  Then she paused.

“Yes, and now!  About the sinful dream!  What did you dream of?  Throwing me over at the last moment and marrying a handsomer man?” gayly inquired the young marquis.

“I will tell you presently what I dreamed; but first tell me, were you in our grounds last night?” she gravely inquired.

“Yes, my little lady; but how did you know of it?” inquired the young marquis in surprise.

“I did not know it.  Were you under my window?” she asked, in a low, tremulous tone.

“Yes, love.  How came you to suspect me?” he inquired, more than ever astonished.

“I did not suspect you.  Had you a companion with you?” she murmured.

“No, Salome.  Certainly not.  Why, sweet, do you ask me?”

“I thought I heard your voice speaking to some one who answered you under my window.”

“But, love, there was no one with me.  I was quite alone.  And I did not speak at all—­not even to myself.  I am not in the habit of soliloquizing.”

“Please tell me, if you can, at what hour you were under my window.”