Night had settled down; the sky was clear and through the cool, crisp air the stars were shining brightly.  The turmoil in the bailey had subsided, but from the quarters of the soldiery rose the hum of voices that now and then swelled out into the chorus of some drinking or fighting song.  There were lights in many of the dwellings where lived the married members of the permanent garrison, and from them ever and anon came the shrill tones of some shrewish, woman scolding her children or berating her lord and master.  For a while Sir Aymer paced the great wide wall, reflecting upon what had occurred since he came to Pontefract and the matters he had learned from De Wilton.  But through it all a woman’s face kept with him and led his thoughts awry, and presently he turned aside and leaned upon the parapet.

He had found her—­and by accident; and had lost her the same instant.  Beatrix of Clare, the greatest heiress in England, was not for him—­a wanderer and a stranger.  She had warned him plainly that day in Windsor Forest—­though he, not knowing her, had missed the point till now.  He might not presume to speak to her until properly presented—­nor even then to refer to what had passed or so much as intimate that they had met before. . .  And yet had not Gloucester himself bade him be not so humble—­that his birth was equal to her own?  Why should he not aspire . . . why not seek her favor . . . what more favorable conditions would he ever know than now?  How extraordinary it was that she should be in Pontefract—­the length of England from where he saw her last.  Surely the Fates were kind to him!  And had she recognized him?  No, for she had not even given him a glance.  He had thought to meet her in the presence chamber this very night; and now—­he must wait until the morrow.  Yet the morrow was sure . . . and then he would see again that sweet face, those ruddy tresses and grey eyes . . . would hear that silvery voice. . .

Hark! he heard it now.

“Why so abstracted, sir?” it seemed to say.

He stood quite still—­would it come again?

St. Denis! there it was!

“Is she so far away, Sir Ralph?” it asked.

Sir Ralph!  What had Sir Ralph to do with this music?

There came a soft laugh and a touch of a hand on his shoulder.

He whirled around—­and stared in wonder at the woman of his dream.

“Oh!” she said.  “Oh!  I thought you were Sir Ralph de Wilton . . . the night is dark—­pray, forgive me.”

De Lacy bowed low.

“I am Sir Ralph de Wilton,” he said.

The Countess smiled.

“You are very good,” she said, and moved away.

“May not Sir Ralph walk with you?” De Lacy asked.

She stopped and with head half turned looked at him thoughtfully.

“Yes, if he wish,” she answered.

For a space they walked in silence; she with head averted. . . 
Presently she laughed.