Cuthbert kissed her many times before he let her go, reminded her again of the place where he himself might be found, and then walked slowly with her towards the old Gate House, only letting her go when she desired it, and watching her glide towards the little door with a sense of sinking at heart which he could hardly explain.

As for Petronella, she stole within the door, which she bolted behind her, as she had found it, and felt her way up the narrow winding stairs that led to the ground floor of the house.  The postern door was below that level, and had a little stair of its own leading to the house, from which it was again shut off by another door at the top.  When Petronella had stolen out to meet Cuthbert, she had left this door open, so as to avoid all needless noise; but when she reached the head of the stairs she found it closed, and her heart gave a sudden throb of dismay as she stood quite still listening and wondering.

Surely she had left it open? her memory had not deceived her!  No; she remembered debating the matter with herself and deciding to do so.  Could it have shut by itself afterwards?  She could scarcely believe it.  It was a heavy oaken door, that moved ponderously on its hinges; and the night was calm and breathless.  No current of air could have blown upon it.  Had some person from above come down and shut it after her? and if so, who could that person be? and had he suspected that she had slipped out into the night, and for what purpose?

With a wildly-beating heart and a frame that felt ready to sink into the ground with fear, Petronella tried the latch of the door, and found it yield to her hand.  She pressed it open and then stood suddenly still, a gasp of terror and dismay escaping her; for there, in the middle of the hall, the moonlight falling full upon his tall rugged figure, stood her father, waiting with folded arms for his truant daughter, a look upon his stern face that she shivered to behold.

“So, girl!” he exclaimed, making one stride forward and catching the frail wrist in a vice-like grasp which almost extorted a cry of pain—­“so, my daughter, thou hast come in from this midnight tryst with thy lover!  And what dost thou think is the reward a father bestows upon a daughter who leaves his house at this dead hour of the night to meet the man he has bidden her eschew for ever?”

Petronella’s agitation was so great that she was well-nigh swooning.  Her nerves had been on the strain for some time.  The excitement of seeing Cuthbert again, of hearing his story and telling her own, had been considerable.  And now to be confronted by a furious father, and accused of having broken her solemn pledge, and of having met her lover at an hour of the night when no virtuous maiden would dream of such a tryst, was more than she could bear.  Slipping to her knees, she laid her hand upon her father’s robe, and clutching hold of it, as if for support, she gasped out the one word: