The pavilion, with its cords of sendal and its silver hanging lamps, spun round about him.  The fair woman herself seemed to dissolve and reunite before his eyes.  She had let down the full-fed river of her hair, and it flowed in the Venetian fashion over her white shoulders, sparkling with an inner fire—­each fine silken thread, as it glittered separate from its fellows, twining like a golden snake.

And the ripple of her laughter played upon the young man’s heart carelessly as a lute is touched by the hands of its mistress.  Something of the primitive glamour of the night and the stars clung to this woman.  It seemed a thing impossible that she should be less pure than the air and the waters, than the dewy grass beneath and the sky cool overhead.  He knew not that the devil sat from the first day of creation on Eden wall, that human sin is all but as eternal as human good, and that passion rises out of its own ashes like the phoenix bird of fable and stands again all beautiful before us, a creature of fire and dew.

Presently the lady rose to her feet, and gave the Earl her hand to lead her to a couch.

“Set a footstool by me,” she bade him, “I desire to talk to you.”

“You know not my name,” she said, after a pause that was like a caress, “though I know yours.  But then the sun in mid-heaven cannot be hidden, though nameless bide the thousand stars.  Shall I tell you mine?  It is a secret; nevertheless, I will tell you if such be your desire.”

“I care not whether you tell me or no,” he answered, looking up into her face from the low seat at her feet.  “Birth cannot add to your beauty, nor sparse quarterings detract from your charm.  I have enough of both, good lack!  And little good they are like to do me.”

“Shall I tell you now,” she went on, “or will you wait till you convoy me to Edinburgh?”

“To Edinburgh!” cried the young man, greatly astonished.  “I have no purpose of journeying to that town of mine enemies.  I have been counselled oft by those who love me to remain in mine own country.  My horoscope bids me refrain.  Not for a thousand commands of King or Chancellor will I go to that dark and bloody town, wherein they say lies waiting the curse of my house.”

“But you will go to please a woman?” she said, and leaned nearer to him, looking deep into his eyes.

For a moment William Douglas wavered.  For a moment he resisted.  But the dark, steadfast orbs thrilled him to the soul, and his own heart rose insurgent against his reason.

“I will come if you ask me,” he said.  “You are more beautiful than I had dreamed any woman could be.”

“I do ask you!” she continued, without removing her eyes from his face.

“Then I will surely come!” he replied.

She set her hand beneath his chin and bent smilingly and lightly to kiss him, but with an imprisoned passionate cry the young man suddenly clasped her in his arms.  Yet even as he did so, his eyes fell upon two figures, which, silent and motionless, stood by the open door of the pavilion.