My heart was in my mouth, as they say, when I stood in the shade by Lorna’s window, and whispered her name gently.  The house was of one story only, as the others were, with pine-ends standing forth the stone, and only two rough windows upon that western side of it, and perhaps those two were Lorna’s.  The Doones had been their own builders, for no one should know their ins and outs; and of course their work was clumsy.  As for their windows, they stole them mostly from the houses round about.  But though the window was not very close, I might have whispered long enough before she would have answered me, frightened as she was, no doubt, by many a rude overture.  And I durst not speak aloud, because I saw another watchman posted on the western cliff, and commanding all the valley.  And now this man (having no companion for drinking or for gambling) espied me against the wall of the house, and advanced to the brink, and challenged me.

“Who are you there?  Answer.  One, two, three and I fire at thee.”

The nozzle of his gun was pointed full upon me, as I could see, with the moonlight striking on the barrel; he was not more than fifty yards off, and now he began to reckon.  Being almost desperate about it, I began to whistle, wondering how far I should get before I lost my windpipe; and as luck would have it, my lips fell into that strange tune I had practiced last; the one I had heard from Charlie.  My mouth would hardly frame the notes, being parched with terror; but to my surprise, the man fell back, dropped his gun, and saluted.  Oh, sweetest of all sweet melodies!

That tune was Carver Doone’s passport (as I heard long afterward), which Charleworth Doone had imitated, for decoy of Lorna.  The sentinel took me for that vile Carver, who was like enough to be prowling there for private talk with Lorna, but not very likely to shout forth his name, if it might be avoided.  The watchman, perceiving the danger, perhaps, of intruding on Carver’s privacy, not only retired along the cliff, but withdrew himself to good distance.

Meanwhile he had done me the kindest service; for Lorna came to the window at once to see what the cause of the shout was, and drew back the curtain timidly.  Then she opened the rough lattice, and then she watched the cliff and trees, and then she sighed very sadly.

“O Lorna, don’t you know me?” I whispered from the side, being afraid of startling her by appearing over-suddenly.

Quick though she always was of thought, she knew me not from my whisper, and was shutting the window hastily, when I caught it back and showed myself.

“John!” she cried, yet with sense enough not to speak aloud; “oh, you must be mad, John!”

“As mad as a March hare,” said I, “without any news of my darling.  You knew I would come—­of course you did.”

* * * * *

A WEDDING AND A REVENGE