when, standing by chance near a group about John Oxon, he had heard him sneer as the old Earl went by with his lady upon his arm.  From that moment his brain had held but one thought—­this man should not go away until he had taught him a thing.  He would teach him, proving to him that there was a power which he might well fear, and which would show no mercy, not even the mercy mere death would show, but would hold over his vile soul a greater awfulness.  But he had danced his minuets and gavottes with my Lady Dunstanwolde as well as with other fair ones, and the country gentry had looked on and applauded him in their talk, telling each other of his fortunes, and of how he had had a wound at Blenheim, distinguished himself elsewhere, and set the world wondering because after his home-coming he took no Duchess instead of choosing one, as all expected.  While they had so talked and he had danced he had made his plan, and his devils had roused themselves and risen.  And then he had made his excuses to his party and watched the coaches drive away, and had gone back to seek John Oxon.  Now he rode back over the moorland, and the day was awake and he was awake too.  He rode swiftly through the gorse and heather, scattering the dewdrops as he went, thousands of dewdrops there were, myriads of pinkish purple heath-bells, and some pure white ones, and yellow gorse blossoms which smelt of honey, and birds that trilled, and such a morning fragrance in the air as made his heart ache for vague longing.  Ah, if all had been but as it might have been, for there were the fair grey towers of Camylott rising before him, and he was riding homeward—­and, oh, God, if he had been riding home to the arms of the most heaven-sweet woman in the world—­heaven-sweet not for her mere loveliness’ sake, but because she was to him as Eve had been to Adam—­the one woman God had made.

His heart swelled and throbbed with thinking it as he rode up the avenue, and its throbbing almost stopped when he approached the garden and saw a tall white figure standing alone by a fountain and looking down.  He sprang from his horse and turned it loose to reach its stable, and went forward feeling as if a dream had begun again, but this time a strange, sweet one.

Her long white draperies hung loose about her, so that she looked like some statue; her hands were crossed on her chest and her chin fell upon them, while her eyes looked straight before into the water.  She was pale as he had never seen her look before, her lip had a weary curve and droop, and under her eyes were shadows.  How young she was—­what a girl, for all her height and bearing! and though he knew her years so well he had never thought on her youth before.  Would God he might have swept her to his breast, crushing her in his arms and plunging into her eyes, for as she turned and raised them to him he saw tears.

“Your ladyship,” he exclaimed.

“My lord has been ill,” she said.  “He asked for you, and when he fell asleep I came to get the morning air, hoping your Grace might come.  I must go back to him.  Come, your Grace, with me.”