It may be needful to go back a short space to “The Bower of Beautie,” wherein the knight of the silver mantle, having safely ensconced himself, as the reader may remember, the arras was let down; after which, being wheeled away to their destination, they were to await for the commencement of the masque.  But the Silver Knight, lifting up the curtain, observed they were much too early for the performance, and courteously entreated the lady that she would alight.  The evening was hot, and the bower close and oppressive.  An hour might, in all probability, elapse ere their presence would be required.  Grace, trusting to her companion, quitted the car, strolling out amongst the masks.  Gradually they left the main crowd, unconsciously approaching the steep brow of the hill, where, looking towards the east, they beheld the broad red moon swinging out from the blue horizon.  The loud hum of the revellers came softly and pleasantly on the ear.  It was an hour of quietness and delight—­a few hasty, happy moments snatched from these gaudy hours—­the pomp and circumstance of life.  Would that Sir John had been here in lieu of his friend! thought Grace.  No, she did not think so, but she felt as though such a thought might have been nursed into being with little effort.  They were now stealing down the hill, and the dark waters of the Orr were leaping and bubbling at their feet.

“We must return,” said the maiden, looking up, alarmed at seeing, for the first time, that they were cut off from all connection and intercourse with their companions.  Her attendant was a perfect stranger, except in name, and though counselled to rely implicity on his care by the master of the ceremonies himself, she felt her situation embarrassing and unpleasant.

“And why must we return?” said the mask.  The tone startled her; its expression was now soft and beseeching, as though he had before spoken in a masked voice.

“Why!” said she, looking as though she would have pierced through his disguise.

“Nay, whet not thy glance so keenly.  I am not what I seem, and yet am not unseemly.”

“Your jests had been better timed had they taken a fitter season.  I must hence.”

“Go not, my beauteous queen,” said the stranger, taking her hand, which she dashed from her with indignation and alarm.  She was darting up the crag, but was again detained.

“I will worship thee:—­thou shall be my star—­the axle of my thoughts.  All”——­

“Unhand me, sir, or I’ll call those who have the power to punish as well as to humble thy presumption!”

“Whom wilt thou call, my pretty lamb?  The wolf?  The snake is scotched in the bower, and I but beseech thy gratitude.  How that look of scorn becomes thee!  Pout not so, my queen, or thou wilt indeed make an excuse for my rudeness.”

“How?  Again this insult!  Begone, or thou shalt rue that ever thy thought escaped thy tongue.  I’ll report thee to thy betters.”