The eyes that gazed at him glowed with maenad-like desire, and bending suddenly she covered his hand with lingering, burning kisses,

Wilhelm passed his hand soothingly over the masses of her silky hair, and it flashed across him how much he had once wished to be able to do so, and now his wish was fulfilled.  Was fulfilled desire really happiness, as this beautiful woman asserted?  His heart beat loud and fast; he was conscious of emotions long unfelt, and—­yes, these emotions were pleasant ones.

He moved as if to rise, but she clung to his arm to hold him back.  He pointed to the door of the room from which Anne might appear at any moment.

“Do have a little more pride of spirit,” said the countess; “one does what one likes, without caring what the servants think.”

“Let me go,” he entreated, and stroked her beautiful hair.

“Why?”

“It is late, and the air in here is close.  I should like to take a turn by the sea.  Please—­”

She looked at him, and a mysterious smile played about her full lips; she dropped his arm.

He hastened away toward the shore, where the waves were rolling in, rattling the pebbles and striking the cliff with dull, heavy thuds.  The August night was mild and full of stars, and there was scarcely a breath of wind.  The tide was rising, wave after wave rolled in, fell over, and swept up the beach in a thin white sheet of foam.  Further out the sea was calm and deserted, only in the extreme distance the lights of some passing steamer crept over the smooth dark waters like tiny glowworms.

Wilhelm’s mind was in a tumult.  This woman—­what a strange, terrifying creature.  Why was she throwing herself at his head?  And who knows if only at his?  And then—­what need to tell him her story?  Perhaps it was a wild, insane flare of passion; but how could he have roused it?  There was nothing in him to account for it.  And she did not know him—­knew nothing about his life or his character.  She was beautiful certainly—­beautiful and alluring, and clever and original—­a most exceptional woman.  She might well be able to disarm a man of his self-control, and paralyze his will.  But after that—­ what then?  How would it end?  Better not begin—­not begin.  That would be the wisest ending.

He left the shore and returned to the hotel.  The view before him was remarkable.  At the further end of the street rose the church, its Gothic flourishes outlined sharply against the lighter background of the sky.  Just behind it stood the full moon, tracing—­as if for its amusement—­the silhouette of the roof of the church tower upon the ground.  Where the shadow of the church ended, the moon poured its silvery light in a broad flood over the street, and further off painted, with, a bold stroke of the brush, a glittering streak of white light across the sea, away to the semi-transparent mists on the horizon.

Passing first through the shimmering light, and then through the black shadow of the church, Wilhelm reached the hotel, where the lights were already extinguished.  Without lighting the candle, which he found ready for him at the foot of the stairs, he mounted to his room.  He was surprised, on reaching the door, to find Fido lying in front of it, his nose resting on his outstretched paws.