They hastily entered, and shut the door behind them.

“Now, good devil, if there be one,” said Varney, within himself, “for once help a votary at a dead pinch, for my boat is amongst the breakers!”

The Countess Amy, with her hair and her garments dishevelled, was seated upon a sort of couch, in an attitude of the deepest affliction, out of which she was startled by the opening of the door.  Size turned hastily round, and fixing her eye on Varney, exclaimed, “Wretch! art thou come to frame some new plan of villainy?”

Leicester cut short her reproaches by stepping forward and dropping his cloak, while he said, in a voice rather of authority than of affection, “It is with me, madam, you have to commune, not with Sir Richard Varney.”

The change effected on the Countess’s look and manner was like magic.  “Dudley!” she exclaimed, “Dudley! and art thou come at last?” And with the speed of lightning she flew to her husband, clung round his neck, and unheeding the presence of Varney, overwhelmed him with caresses, while she bathed his face in a flood of tears, muttering, at the same time, but in broken and disjointed monosyllables, the fondest expressions which Love teaches his votaries.

Leicester, as it seemed to him, had reason to be angry with his lady for transgressing his commands, and thus placing him in the perilous situation in which he had that morning stood.  But what displeasure could keep its ground before these testimonies of affection from a being so lovely, that even the negligence of dress, and the withering effects of fear, grief, and fatigue, which would have impaired the beauty of others, rendered hers but the more interesting.  He received and repaid her caresses with fondness mingled with melancholy, the last of which she seemed scarcely to observe, until the first transport of her own joy was over, when, looking anxiously in his face, she asked if he was ill.

“Not in my body, Amy,” was his answer.

“Then I will be well too.  O Dudley!  I have been ill!—­very ill, since we last met!—­for I call not this morning’s horrible vision a meeting.  I have been in sickness, in grief, and in danger.  But thou art come, and all is joy, and health, and safety!”

“Alas, Amy,” said Leicester, “thou hast undone me!”

“I, my lord?” said Amy, her cheek at once losing its transient flush of joy—­“how could I injure that which I love better than myself?”

“I would not upbraid you, Amy,” replied the Earl; “but are you not here contrary to my express commands—­and does not your presence here endanger both yourself and me?”

“Does it, does it indeed?” she exclaimed eagerly; “then why am I here a moment longer?  Oh, if you knew by what fears I was urged to quit Cumnor Place!  But I will say nothing of myself—­only that if it might be otherwise, I would not willingly return thither; yet if it concern your safety—­”

“We will think, Amy, of some other retreat,” said Leicester; “and you shall go to one of my northern castles, under the personage—­it will be but needful, I trust, for a very few days—­of Varney’s wife.”