A slight noise in the apartment interrupted his reverie.  He looked round, and in the beautiful and richly-attired female who entered at that instant by a side-door he recognized the object of his search.  The first impulse arising from this discovery urged him to conceal his face with the collar of his cloak, until he should find a favourable moment of making himself known.  But his purpose was disconcerted by the young lady (she was not above eighteen years old), who ran joyfully towards him, and, pulling him by the cloak, said playfully, “Nay, my sweet friend, after I have waited for you so long, you come not to my bower to play the masquer.  You are arraigned of treason to true love and fond affection, and you must stand up at the bar and answer it with face uncovered—­how say you, guilty or not?”

“Alas, Amy!” said Tressilian, in a low and melancholy tone, as he suffered her to draw the mantle from his face.  The sound of his voice, and still more the unexpected sight of his face, changed in an instant the lady’s playful mood.  She staggered back, turned as pale as death, and put her hands before her face.  Tressilian was himself for a moment much overcome, but seeming suddenly to remember the necessity of using an opportunity which might not again occur, he said in a low tone, “Amy, fear me not.”

“Why should I fear you?” said the lady, withdrawing her hands from her beautiful face, which was now covered with crimson,—­“Why should I fear you, Master Tressilian?—­or wherefore have you intruded yourself into my dwelling, uninvited, sir, and unwished for?”

“Your dwelling, Amy!” said Tressilian.  “Alas! is a prison your dwelling?—­a prison guarded by one of the most sordid of men, but not a greater wretch than his employer!”

“This house is mine,” said Amy—­“mine while I choose to inhabit it.  If it is my pleasure to live in seclusion, who shall gainsay me?”

“Your father, maiden,” answered Tressilian, “your broken-hearted father, who dispatched me in quest of you with that authority which he cannot exert in person.  Here is his letter, written while he blessed his pain of body which somewhat stunned the agony of his mind.”

“The pain!  Is my father then ill?” said the lady.

“So ill,” answered Tressilian, “that even your utmost haste may not restore him to health; but all shall be instantly prepared for your departure, the instant you yourself will give consent.”

“Tressilian,” answered the lady, “I cannot, I must not, I dare not leave this place.  Go back to my father—­tell him I will obtain leave to see him within twelve hours from hence.  Go back, Tressilian—­tell him I am well, I am happy—­happy could I think he was so; tell him not to fear that I will come, and in such a manner that all the grief Amy has given him shall be forgotten—­the poor Amy is now greater than she dare name.  Go, good Tressilian—­I have injured thee too, but believe me I have power to heal the wounds I have caused.  I robbed you of a childish heart, which was not worthy of you, and I can repay the loss with honours and advancement.”