“As fate is not governed by law or custom, I have the best reason in the world to hope,” said Lorry, yet modestly.

“I would indeed, sir, that you were a Prince of the realm,” fervently cried the Count, and Lorry was struck by the fact that he repeated, word for word, the wish Gaspon had uttered some hours before.

By this time they were joined by the others, whereupon Grenfall hurried eagerly to the balcony, conscious of being half an hour early, but glad of the chance afforded for reflection and solitude.  Sitting on the broad stone railing he leaned back against a pillar and looked into the night for his thoughts.  Once more the moon was gleaming beyond St. Valentine’s, throwing against the sky a jagged silhouette of frowning angles, towering gables and monstrous walls, the mountain and the monastery blending into one great misty product of the vision.  Voices came up from below, as they did on that night five weeks ago, bringing the laughter and song of happy hearts.  Music swelled through the park from the band gallery; from afar off came the sounds of revelry.  The people of Edelweiss were rejoicing over the unexpected deliverance from a fate so certain that the escape seemed barely short of miraculous.

Every sound, every rustle of the wind through the plants that were scattered over the balcony caused him to look toward the door through which she must come to him.

At last she appeared, and he hastened to meet her.  As he took her hands in his, she said softly, dreamily, looking over his shoulder toward the mountain’s crest: 

“The same fair moon,” and smiled into his eyes.

“The same fair maid and the same man,” he added.  “I believe the band is playing the same air; upon my soul, I do.”

“Yes, the same air, La Paloma.  It is my lullaby.  Come, let us walk.  I cannot sit quietly now.  Talk to me.  Let me listen and be happy.”

Slowly they paced the wide balcony, through the moonlight and the shadows, her hand resting on his arm, his clasping it gently.  Love obstructs the flow of speech; the heart-beats choke back the words and fill the throat.

Lorry talked but little, she not at all.  Times there were when; they covered the full length of the balcony without a word.  And yet they understood each other.  The mystic, the enchanting silence of love was fraught with a conversation felt, not heard.

Why are you so quiet?” he asked, at last, stopping near the rail.

“I cannot tell you why.  It seems to me that I am afraid of you,” she answered, a shy quaver in her voice.

“Afraid of me?  I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I. You are not as you were before this morning.  You are different—­yes, you make me feel that I am weak and helpless and that you can say to me ‘come’ and ‘go’ and I must obey.  Isn’t it odd that I, who have never known submissiveness, should so suddenly find myself tyrannized?” she asked, smiling faintly.