I threw on my cloak, and, carrying my shoes, slowly and breathlessly crept down the stairs to the back door, which had a light fastening.  And I ran across garden and park, across Graysmill Heath in the night, strengthened by one fear against all others, nor did I stop until I stood on the little hillock within sight of the Thatched Cottage.

I saw at once that a light was burning in the window of Gabriel’s old room.  I sprang on and halted once more on the grass-patch before the Cottage door.  The blind was down, a shadow passed to and fro.  I could see very well by the way he moved that he was not calm.  I wanted to get to him.  I tried the house door, but it was firmly fastened.  I sat down on the ground and kept my eyes fixed on the window.  He stooped repeatedly; once, as he swept the hair back from his eyes, I thought I saw that he held something in his hand.  I picked up a stone, ready to throw it at the window, but my courage failed me; then I noticed that the light flickered strangely, as from fire; it faded, and all was dark.

I strained my ears in vain for a sound; a horrible fear seized me.  I flung my little stone, but it was very dark; I heard it strike the bricks.  Groping for more, I flung another, and yet another.  One of them struck the panes; I stood and held my breath,—­no sound.

I made my way to the door again, tried it again; I laid my ear to the key-hole, and then I distinctly heard the creaking of the stairs; some one was coming down.  The hall was crossed, the bolt of the door was gently drawn.  I fell back a little; some one came out with a firm step, and sprang on to the path.

It was a mere shadow that I could see; I caught him by the arm.

“Gabriel,” I said, “where are you going?”

He started violently, and something fell from his hand.

“You?” he cried.  “Why are you here?  Emilia! you have come too soon!”

I remember that I clutched his wrists, as if in fear that he might even then lift his hand against himself.

“You coward!” was all I said; “oh, you coward!” He did not answer me, and we stood so a while.  Then he said gently: 

“Your hands are cold, my girl; let us go in.”

We made our way into the study.  After some groping, we found the matches and lighted a candle.  Gabriel sat down by the table and buried his face in his hands.  I went to him and stroked his hair.

“Poor boy,” I said; “I guessed how it would be; that’s why I came.”

He stood up hastily.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried; “I have done you a fearful wrong; there was only one atonement I could make, and that you have prevented.  Emilia, leave me.  You should not have come.”

I forget how I told him; but I told him then how, in joining their hands together, I had meant them to understand that I resigned him to her.  I told him how long I had known of their most natural love, confessed my struggles, my defeat, and acknowledged to the full the sin I had committed in marrying him in spite of what I knew.  I reminded him, too, of our covenant, of the beliefs and aspirations we had shared, and implored him to accept his liberty.