’I’m like a man who has lost his way among the catacombs—­among the dead,’ whispered this muffled figure, close to the window, still fervently holding her hand, ’and sees at last the distant gleam that shows him that his wanderings are to end.  Yes, Gertrude, my beloved—­yes, Gertrude, idol of my solitary love—­the mystery is about to end—­I’ll end it.  Be I what I may you know the worst, and have given me your love and troth—­you are my affianced bride; rather than lose you, I would die; and I think, or I am walking in a dream, I’ve but to point my finger against two men, and all will be peace and light—­light and peace—­to me long strangers!’

At this moment Aunt Becky’s voice was heard at the door, and the flash of the flambeaux glared on the window.  He kissed the hand of the pale girl hurriedly, and the French cocked-hat and mantle vanished.

In came Aunt Rebecca in a fuss, and it must be said in no very gracious mood, and rather taciturn and sarcastic; and so away they rumbled over the old bridge towards Belmont.

CHAPTER LXI.

IN WHICH THE GHOSTS OF A BY-GONE SIN KEEP TRYST.

Devereux, wrapped in his cloak, strode into the park, through Parson’s-gate, up the steep hill, and turned towards Castleknock and the furze and hawthorn wood that interposes.  The wide plain spread before him in solitude, with the thin vapours of night, lying over it like a film in the moonlight.

Two or three thorn trees stood out from the rest, a pale and solitary group, stooping eastward with the prevailing sweep of a hundred years or more of westerly winds.  To this the gipsy captain glided, in a straight military line, his eye searching the distance; and, after a while, from the skirts of the wood, there moved to meet him a lonely female figure, with her light clothing fluttering in the cold air.  At first she came hurriedly, but as they drew near, she came more slowly.

Devereux was angry, and, like an angry man, he broke out first with—­

’So, your servant, Mistress Nan!  Pretty lies you’ve been telling of me—­you and your shrew of a mother.  You thought you might go to the rector and say what you pleased, and I hear nothing.’

Nan Glynn was undefinably aware that he was very angry, and had hesitated and stood still before he began, and now she said imploringly—­

‘Sure, Masther Richard, it wasn’t me.’

’Come, my lady, don’t tell me.  You and your mother—­curse her!—­went to the Elms in my absence—­you and she—­and said I had promised to marry you!  There—­yes or no.  Didn’t you?  And could you or could she have uttered a more utterly damnable lie?’

‘’Twas she, Master Richard—­troth an’ faith.  I never knew she was going to say the like—­no more I didn’t.’

‘A likely story, truly, Miss Nan!’ said the young rake, bitterly.

’Oh!  Masther Richard! by this cross!—­you won’t believe me—­’tis as true as you’re standin’ there—­until she said it to Miss Lily—­’