I had about two leagues before me of a road mostly uphill, and now deep in mire.  So soon as I was clear of the last street lamp, darkness received me—­a darkness only pointed by the lights of occasional rustic farms, where the dogs howled with uplifted heads as I went by.  The wind continued to decline:  it had been but a squall, not a tempest.  The rain, on the other hand, settled into a steady deluge, which had soon drenched me thoroughly.  I continued to tramp forward in the night, contending with gloomy thoughts and accompanied by the dismal ululation of the dogs.  What ailed them that they should have been thus wakeful, and perceived the small sound of my steps amid the general reverberation of the rain, was more than I could fancy.  I remembered tales with which I had been entertained in childhood.  I told myself some murderer was going by, and the brutes perceived upon him the faint smell of blood; and the next moment, with a physical shock, I had applied the words to my own case!

Here was a dismal disposition for a lover.  ’Was ever lady in this humour wooed?’ I asked myself, and came near turning back.  It is never wise to risk a critical interview when your spirits are depressed, your clothes muddy, and your hands wet!  But the boisterous night was in itself favourable to my enterprise:  now, or perhaps never, I might find some way to have an interview with Flora; and if I had one interview (wet clothes, low spirits and all), I told myself there would certainly be another.

Arrived in the cottage-garden I found the circumstances mighty inclement.  From the round holes in the shutters of the parlour, shafts of candle-light streamed forth; elsewhere the darkness was complete.  The trees, the thickets, were saturated; the lower parts of the garden turned into a morass.  At intervals, when the wind broke forth again, there passed overhead a wild coil of clashing branches; and between whiles the whole enclosure continuously and stridently resounded with the rain.  I advanced close to the window and contrived to read the face of my watch.  It was half-past seven; they would not retire before ten, they might not before midnight, and the prospect was unpleasant.  In a lull of the wind I could hear from the inside the voice of Flora reading aloud; the words of course inaudible—­only a flow of undecipherable speech, quiet, cordial, colourless, more intimate and winning, more eloquent of her personality, but not less beautiful than song.  And the next moment the clamour of a fresh squall broke out about the cottage; the voice was drowned in its bellowing, and I was glad to retreat from my dangerous post.

For three egregious hours I must now suffer the elements to do their worst upon me, and continue to hold my ground in patience.  I recalled the least fortunate of my services in the field:  being out-sentry of the pickets in weather no less vile, sometimes unsuppered and with nothing to look forward to by way of breakfast but musket-balls; and they seemed light in comparison.  So strangely are we built:  so much more strong is the love of woman than the mere love of life.