could he only leave this haunting misery behind.  He was so proud of his regiment; he had been so happy in bringing home to it his accomplished and gracious wife; he had been so joyous in planning for the lovely times Alice was to have,—­the social successes, the girlish triumphs, the garrison gayeties of which she was to be the queen,—­and now, so very, very soon, all had turned to ashes and desolation!  She was so beautiful, so sweet, winning, graceful.  Oh, God! could it be that one so gifted could possibly be so base?  He rose in nervous misery and clinched his hands high in air, then sat down again with hiding, hopeless face, rocking to and fro as sways a man in mortal pain.  It was long before he rallied and again wearily arose.  Most of the lights were gone; silence had settled down upon the sleeping point; he was chilled with the night air and the dew, and stiff and heavy as he tried to walk.  Down at the foot of the stairs he could see the night-watchman making his rounds.  He did not want to explain matters and talk with him:  he would go around.  There was a steep pathway down into the ravine that gave into the lake just beyond his sister’s cottage, and this he sought and followed, moving slowly and painfully, but finally reaching the grassy level of the pathway that connected the cottages with the wood-road up the bluff.  Trees and shrubbery were thick on both sides, and the path was shaded.  He turned to his right, and came down until once more he was in sight of the white walls of the hotel standing out there on the point, until close at hand he could see the light of his own cottage glimmering like faithful beacon through the trees; and then he stopped short.

A tall, slender figure—­a man in dark, snug-fitting clothing—­was creeping stealthily up to the cottage window.

The colonel held his breath:  his heart thumped violently:  he waited,—­watched.  He saw the dark figure reach the blinds; he saw them slowly, softly turned, and the faint light gleaming from within; he saw the figure peering in between the slats, and then—­God! was it possible?—­a low voice, a man’s voice, whispering or hoarsely murmuring a name:  he heard a sudden movement within the room, as though the occupant had heard and were replying, “Coming.”  His blood froze:  it was not Alice’s room:  it was his,—­his and hers—­his wife’s,—­and that was surely her step approaching the window.  Yes, the blind was quickly opened.  A white-robed figure stood at the casement.  He could see, hear, bear no more:  with one mad rush he sprang from his lair and hurled himself upon the shadowy stranger.

“You hound! who are you?”

But ’twas no shadow that he grasped.  A muscular arm was round him in a trice, a brawny hand at his throat, a twisting, sinewy leg was curled in his, and he went reeling back upon the springy turf, stunned and wellnigh breathless.

When he could regain his feet and reach the casement the stranger had vanished; but Mrs. Maynard lay there on the floor within, a white and senseless heap.