Far in the East the grey streak had brightened, and broadened, and was already tinged with a faint pink that deepened, and deepened, as he watched.  Bellew had seen the glory of many a sun-rise in divers wild places of the Earth, and, hitherto, had always felt deep within him, the responsive thrill, the exhilaration of hope new born, and joyful expectation of the great, unknown Future.  But now, he watched the varying hues of pink, and scarlet, and saffron, and gold, with gloomy brow, and sombre eyes.

Now presently, the Black-bird who lived in the apple-tree beneath his window, (the tree of the inquisitive turn of mind), this Black-bird fellow, opening a drowsy eye, must needs give vent to a croak, very hoarse and feeble; then, (apparently having yawned prodigiously and stretched himself, wing, and leg), he tried a couple of notes,—­in a hesitating, tentative sort of fashion, shook himself,—­repeated the two notes,—­tried three, found them mellower, and more what the waiting world very justly expected of him; grew more confident; tried four; tried five,—­grew perfectly assured, and so burst forth into the full, golden melody of his morning song.

Then Bellew, leaning out from his casement, as the first bright beams of the rising sun gilded the top-most leaves of the tree, thus apostrophised the unseen singer: 

“I suppose you will be piping away down in your tree there, old fellow, long after Arcadia has faded out of my life.  Well, it will be only natural, and perfectly right, of course,—­She will be here, and may, perhaps, stop to listen to you.  Now if, somehow, you could manage to compose for me a Song of Memory, some evening when I’m gone,—­some evening when She happens to be sitting idle, and watching the moon rise over the upland yonder; if, at such a time, you could just manage to remind her of—­me, why—­I’d thank you.  And so,—­Good-bye, old fellow!”

Saying which, Bellew turned from the window, and took up a certain bulging, be-strapped portmanteau, while the Black-bird, (having, evidently, hearkened to his request with much grave attention), fell a singing more gloriously than ever.

Meanwhile, Bellew descended the great, wide stair, soft of foot, and cautious of step, yet pausing once to look towards a certain closed door, and so, presently let himself quietly out into the dawn.  The dew sparkled in the grass, it hung in glittering jewels from every leaf, and twig, while, now and then, a shining drop would fall upon him as he passed, like a great tear.

Now, as he reached the orchard, up rose the sun in all his majesty filling the world with the splendour of his coming,—­before whose kindly beams the skulking mists and shadows shrank affrighted, and fled utterly away.

This morning, “King Arthur” wore his grandest robes of state, for his mantle of green was thick sewn with a myriad flaming gems; very different he looked from that dark, shrouded giant who had so lately been Conspirator No.  Two.  Yet, perhaps for this very reason, Bellew paused to lay a hand upon his mighty, rugged hole, and, doing so, turned and looked back at the House of Dapplemere.