on the altar-steps were three figures; behind the altar a space of gloom, from whence issued the soft, clear singing of the choristers.  Then, suddenly, into that clear sweet singing broke a loud blare of trumpets; a man bounded on to the altar-steps; there was the flash of a blade—­a shriek—­a fall; then the roar of a crowd, sullen, and distant, and awful.  It is the cry of a great city; and this poor crouching fugitive, who hides behind the fountain in the Place, is watching for his chance to dart away into some place of safety.  But the crowd have let him pass; they are merciful; they are glad of the death of their enemy; it is only the police he has to fear.  What lane is dark enough?  What ruins must he haunt, like a dog, in the night-time?  But the night is full of fire, and the stars overhead are red, and everywhere there is a roar and a murmur—­the assassination of the Cardinal!

Well, it is quieter in this dungeon; and soon there will be an end, and peace.  But for the letters of fire that burns one’s brain the place would be as black as night; and it is still as night; one can sit and listen.  And now that dull throbbing sound—­and a strain of music—­is it the young wife who, all unknowing, is digging her husband’s grave?  How sad she is!  She pities the poor prisoner, whoever he may be.  She would not dig this grave if she knew:  she calls herself Fidelio; she is faithful to her love.  But now—­but now—­though this hole is black as night, and silent, and the waters are lapping outside, cannot one know what is passing there?  There are some who are born to be happy.  Ah, look at the faithful wife now, as she strikes off her husband’s fetters—­listen to the glad music, destin ormai felice!—­they take each other’s hand—­they go away proudly into the glad daylight—­husband and wife together for evermore.  This poor prisoner listens, though his heart will break.  The happy music grows more and more faint—­the husband and wife are together now—­the beautiful white day is around them—­the poor prisoner is left alone:  there is no one even coming to bid him farewell.

The sleeper moaned in his sleep, and stretched out his hand as if to seek some other hand.

“No one—­not even a word of good-bye!” he murmured.

But then the dream changed.  And now it was a wild and windy day in the blowing month of March, and the streams in this Buckinghamshire valley were swollen, and the woods were bare.  Who are these two who come into the small and bleak church-yard?  They are a mother and daughter; they are all in black; and the face of the daughter is pale, and her eyes filled with tears.  Her face is white, and the flowers she carries are white, and that is the white tombstone there in the corner—­apart from the others.  See how she kneels down at the foot of the grave, and puts the flowers lightly on the grass, and clasps her trembling hands, and prays.

“Natalie—­my wife!” he calls in his sleep.