He stopped at once at sight of her.  He had been walking up and down, with an exceedingly surprised and perplexed face; and now he stood with his great, Saxon-blue eyes piercingly fixed upon the young person in velveteen, whose jacket and trousers told one story, and whose streaming dark hair told quite another.

“It is past sunrise, Sir Everard,” his preserver began, with a reproachful glance, “and you have broken your promise.  You said you would awake me.”

“I beg your pardon,” retorted Sir Everard, quietly; “I have broken no promise.  I came to your room ten minutes ago to arouse you, as I said I would.  I knocked thrice, and received no reply.  Then I entered.  You must excuse me for doing so.  How was I to know I was entertaining angels unaware?”

With a low cry of consternation his hearer’s hands flew up and covered his face, to hide the blushes that were not there.

“Your red handkerchief and hat do you good service in your masquerade, mademoiselle.  I confess I should never suspect a lady in that suit of velveteen.”

With a sudden theatrical abandon the “lady in velveteen” flung herself on her knees at his feet.

“Forgive me!” she cried, holding up her clasped hands.  “Have pity on me!  Don’t reveal my secret, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Forgive you!” repeated Sir Everard, hastily.  “What have I to forgive?  Pray get up; there is no reason you should kneel and supplicate pity from me.”

He raised her imperatively.  Her head dropped in womanly confusion, and, hiding her face, she sobbed.

“What must you think?  How dreadful it must look!  But, oh, Sir Everard! if you only knew!”

“I should like to know, I confess.  Come here in this window recess and tell me, won’t you?  Come, look up, and don’t cry so.  Tell me who you are.”

“I am Sybilla Silver, and I have run away from home, and I will die sooner than ever go back!”

She looked up with a passionate outbreak, and Sir Everard saw the splendor of a pair of flashing Spanish eyes.

“I shall not send you back, depend upon it.  Why did you run away, Miss Silver?”

“Do you really wish to know?” she asked.  “Oh, Sir Everard Kingsland, will you indeed be my friend?”

“Your true and faithful friend, my poor girl!” he answered, moved by the piteous appeal.  “Surely I could hardly be less to one who so bravely saved my life.”

“Ah! that was nothing.  I lay no claim on that.  Serve me as you would serve any friendless girl in distress; and you are brave and generous and noble, I know.”

“You ‘do me proud,’ mademoiselle.  Suppose you cease complimenting, and begin at the beginning.  Who are your friends, and why did you leave them, and where have you run away from?”