the day had done gloriously till noon, but the sky's mood changed as evening advanced. clouds were huddled up in grey masses by a gathering and gusty wind, and the june calm took flight like a girl in a new gown when rain threatens.

by nightfall, a storm held orgy over the cliff. billow upon billow of wind came roaring over the myriad trees. the pines were sweeping a murky sky with their black brooms, creaking and moaning in chorus. rain rattled heavily, and over the cliff the storm thundered and cried with the long wail of the wind over rock and tree.

in yeoland's chamber the lamp flared and smoked, and the postern clattered. rain splashed upon the shivering casement; the carpet breathed restlessly with the draught under the door. it was late, yet the girl was still at her devotions. her thoughts were dishevelled and full of discords, while between her fingers the beads of her rosary moved listlessly, and her prayers were broken by the anathemas of the storm.

the dual distractions of life had come in her to grappling point again. she could boast no omnipotence in her own heart, and could but give countenance to one of the two factions that clamoured for her favour. as her mood changed like the mood of a fickle despot none too sure of his throne, so tumult and despair were let loose time after time into the echoing courts and alleys of her soul. she had neither the courage nor the force of will for the moment to compel herself either to satisfy her womanhood or sacrifice her instincts to a religious conviction. man and god held each a half of her being. the man's face outstared god's face; god's law overshadowed the man's.

she had been carried into the palpitating azure of religious exaltation. the world had rolled at her feet. she had bathed her forehead in the infinite forethought of eternity; she had heard the stupendous sounding of the spheres. then some mischievous sprite had plucked the wings from her shoulders, and she had fallen far into an abyss. after spiritual exaltation comes physical depression. neither is a normal state; neither strictly sane to the intellect. peter-like, she had trod the waves; faith had played her false; the waters had gone over her soul.

as she knelt brooding before her crucifix, under the wavering lamp, she was smitten into listening immobility, her rosary idle in her hand. a cry had come to her amid the multitudinous voices of the storm, a cry like a hail from a ship over a tumbling sea at night.

she waited and wondered. again the cry rose above the babel of the wind. was it from fulviac's room; or a sentinel's shout from the cliff, seized upon and carried by the wind with distorting vehemence? midnight covered the world, and the girl was in an impressionable mood. she took the lamp from its bracket and, opening the door, peered down the gallery that led to fulviac's room.

a sudden sinister sound made her start back into the room, the lamp flashing tremulous beams upon the walls, and striking confusion into the shadows. a hand was beating heavily upon the postern.

she set the lamp in its bracket, crept to the door, put her ear to the lock and listened. the knocking had ceased, and in a momentary lulling of the wind she even fancied she could hear the sound of deep breathing. her heart was hurrying, but suspense emboldened her.

"who's there?"

a sudden gust made such a bluster that her voice died almost unheard in the night. there was a vague clangour without, as of arms, and the knocking re-echoed sullenly through the room. a lull came again.

"who knocks?"

this time an answer came back to her.

"i--flavian."

she caught her breath and shivered.

"what do you want at midnight, and in such a storm?"

"let me in. open to me."

"no--no."

"open to me."

"are you still mad?"

silence held a moment. then the voice rose again, with the hoarse moan of the wind for an underchant.

"liberty, liberty, i am free, i am free."

she shrank aside against the wall.

"the night gave me my chance; i have men in the wood. let me in."

"ah, messire."

"i plead for love and my own soul. i come to give you life, sword, all. i cannot leave you; i am in outer darkness; you are in heaven. let me in."

she stood swaying like a reed in a breeze. her brain glowed like some rich scheme of colour, some sun-ravished garden. the massed moan of a hundred viols seemed to sweep over her soul. god, for the courage to be weak!

"yeoland! yeoland! have you no word for me?"

her hand trembled to the door; her fingers closed upon the key. she hesitated and her dangling rosary caught her glance; sudden revulsions of purpose flooded back; she stumbled away from the door like one about to faint.

"i cannot, i cannot," she said.

"i will break down the door."

the threat inspired her.

"no, no, not thus can you win me."

"i will break in."

"attempt it, and i will call the guard. you will lose hope of me for ever. i swear it."

her voice rang true and strong as a sword. with her judgment, silence fell again, and ages seemed to crawl over the world. when the man spoke again, his voice was less masterful, more pathetic.

"have you no hope for me?" it said.

"i have given you life."

"what is life without love?"

she sighed very bitterly.

"messire, you do not understand," she said.

"no, you are a riddle to me."

"a riddle that you may read anon; time will show you the truth. i tell you i am given to god. only in one way can you win me."

"are you solemn over this?"

"solemn as death."

"tell me that only way."

"only by breaking the bonds about my soul, by liberating me from myself, by battle and through perils that you cannot tell."

"war and the sword!"

"yet not to-night. you would need ten thousand men to take me from this cliff. i advise you for your good. only by great power and the sword can you win your desire."

"by god, then, let it be war."

an utter sense of loneliness flooded over her. she sobbed in her throat, leant against the door, listened, waited. the wind roared without, the rain beat upon the quaking casement, and she heard the multitudinous moaning of the pines. no voice companioned her, and the night was void.

a sudden access of passion prompted her. she twisted at the key, tore the bolts aside, flung the door open. the stairway was empty. rain whirled in her face, as she stood out in the wind, and called the man many times by name. it was vain and to no purpose.

presently she re-entered the room, very slowly, and barred the door. her rosary rolled under her feet. she picked it up suddenly and dashed it away into a corner. the face on the crucifix seemed to leer at her from the wall.