His watch told him that Tresten was now beholding her, or just about to.  The stillness of the heavens was remarkable.  The hour held breath.  She delayed her descent from her chamber.  He saw how she touched at her hair, more distinctly than he saw the lake before his eyes.  He watched her, and the growl of a coming roar from him rebuked her tricky deliberateness.  Deciding at last, she slips down the stairs like a waterfall, and is in the room, erect, composed—­if you do not lay ear against her bosom.  Tresten stares at her, owns she is worth a struggle.  Love does this, friend Tresten!  Love, that stamps out prejudice and bids inequality be smooth.  Tresten stares and owns she is worth heavier labours, worse than his friend has endured.  Love does it!  Love, that hallows a stranger’s claim to the flower of a proud garden:  Love has won her the freedom to suffer herself to be chosen by the stranger.  What matters which of them toiled to bring them to so sweet an end!  It was not either of them, but Love.  By and by, after acting serenest innocent, suddenly broken, she will be copious of sad confessions.  That will be in their secresy:  in the close and boundless together of clasped hands.  Deep eyes, that give him in realms of light within light all that he has dreamed of rapturousness and blessedness, you are threatened with a blinding kiss if you look abashed:—­if her voice shall dare repeat another of those foolish self-reproaches, it shall be construed as a petition for further kisses.  Silence! he said to her, imagining that he had been silent, and enjoying silence with a perfect quietude beyond the trouble of a thought of her kisses and his happiness.  His full heart craved for the infinity of silence.

Another moment and he was counting to her the days, hours, minutes, which had been the gulf of torture between then and now—­the separation and the reunion:  he was voluble, living to speak, and a pause was only for the drawing of most blissful breath.

His watch went slowly.  She was beginning to drop her eyelids in front of Tresten.  Oh! he knew her so well.  He guessed the length of her acting, and the time for her earnestness.  She would have to act a coquette at first to give herself a countenance; and who would not pardon the girl for putting on a mask? who would fail to see the mask?  But he knew her so well:  she would not trifle very long:  his life on it, that she will soon falter! her bosom will lift, lift and check:  a word from Tresten then, if he is a friend, and she melts to the truth in her.  Alvan heard her saying:  ’I will see him yes, to-day.  Let him appoint.  He may come when he likes—­come at once’

‘My life on it!’ he swore by his unerring knowledge of her, the certainty that she loved him.