I trembled, not with fear, but with an exquisite delight I dared not pause to analyse.  He pressed my hand more closely.

“We had better walk on,”—­he continued, averting his gaze from mine for the moment—­“If I say more just now I shall say too much—­and you will be frightened,—­perhaps offended.  I have been guilty of so many errors in the past,—­you must help me to avoid them in the future.  Come!”—­and he turned his eyes again upon me with a smile—­ “Let us see the sunset!”

We moved on for a few moments in absolute silence, he still holding my hand and guiding me up the rough path we followed.  The noise of the rushing torrent sounded louder in my ears, sometimes with a clattering insistence as though it sought to match itself against the surging of my own quick blood in an endeavour to drown my thoughts.  On we went and still onward,—­the path seemed interminable, though it was in reality a very short journey.  But there was such a weight of unutterable things pressing on my soul like a pent-up storm craving for outlet, that every step measured itself as almost a mile.

At last we paused; we were in full view of Loch Coruisk and its weird splendour.  On all sides arose bare and lofty mountains, broken and furrowed here and there by deep hollows and corries,—­supremely grand in their impressive desolation, uplifting their stony peaks around us like the walls and turrets of a gigantic fortress, and rising so abruptly and so impenetrably encompassing the black stretch of water below, that it seemed impossible for a sunbeam to force its shining entrance into such a circle of dense gloom.  Yet there was a shower of golden light pouring aslant down one of the highest of the hills, brightening to vivid crimson stray clumps of heather, touching into pale green some patches of moss and lichen, and giving the dazzling flash of silver to the white wings of a sea-gull which soared above our heads uttering wild cries like a creature in pain.  Pale blue mists were rising from the surface of the lake, and the fitful gusts of air that rushed over the rocky summits played with these impalpable vapours borne inland from the Atlantic, and tossed them to and fro into fantastic shapes—­some like flying forms with long hair streaming behind them—­some like armed warriors, hurtling their spears against each other,—­and some like veiled ghosts hurrying past as though driven to their land of shadows by shuddering fear.  We stood silently hand in hand, watching the uneasy flitting of these cloud phantoms, and waiting for the deepening glow, which, when it should spread upwards from the rays of the sinking sun, would transform the wild, dark scene to one of almost supernatural splendour.  Suddenly Santoris spoke: 

“Now shall I tell you where we last met?” he asked, very gently—­ “And may I show you the reasons why we meet again?”

I lifted my eyes to his.  My heart beat with suffocating quickness, and thoughts were in my brain that threatened to overwhelm my small remaining stock of self-control and make of me nothing but a creature of tears and passion.  I moved my lips in an effort to speak, but no sound came from them.