The fact that I had been out the entire night before, together with the small repute in which I was held for deeds of arms, excused me from taking part in this bootless errand, so again I profited by the small esteem in which I was held.  I say I profited, for I stayed at the castle with Jane, hoping to find my opportunity in the absence of everybody else.  All the ladies but Jane had ridden out, and the knights who had been with me scouring the forest were sleeping, since they had not my incentive to remain awake.  They had no message to deliver; no duty to perform for an absent friend.  A thousand!  Only think of it!  I wished it had been a million, and so faithful was I to my trust that I swore in my soul I would deliver them, every one.

And Jane loved me!  No more walking on the hard, prosaic earth now; from this time forth I would fly; that was the only sensible method of locomotion.  Mary had said:  “She told me so.”  Could it really be true?  You will at once see what an advantage this bit of information was to me.

I hoped that Jane would wish to see me to talk over Mary’s escape—­so I sent word to her that I was waiting, and she quickly enough recovered her health and came down.  I suggested that we walk out to a secluded little summer-house by the river, and Jane was willing.  Ah! my opportunity was here at last.

She found her bonnet, and out we went.  What an enchanting walk was that, and how rich is a man who has laid up such treasures of memory to grow the sweeter as he feeds upon them.  A rich memory is better than hope, for it lasts after fruition, and serves us at a time when hope has failed and fruition is but—­a memory.  Ah! how we cherish it in our hearts, and how it comes at our beck and call to thrill us through and through and make us thank God that we have lived, and wonder in our hearts why he has given poor undeserving us so much.

After we arrived at the summer-house, Jane listened, half the time in tears, while I told her all about Mary’s flight.

Shall I ever forget that summer day?  A sweet briar entwined our enchanted bower, and, when I catch its scent even now, time-vaulting memory carries me back, making years seem as days, and I see it all as I saw the light of noon that moment—­and all was Jane.  The softly lapping river, as it gently sought the sea, sang in soothing cadence of naught but Jane; the south wind from his flowery home breathed zephyr-voiced her name again, and, as it stirred the rustling leaves on bush and tree, they whispered back the same sweet strain; and every fairy voice found its echo in my soul; for there it was as ’twas with me, “Jane!  Jane!  Jane!” I have heard men say they would not live their lives over and take its meager grains of happiness, in such infinite disproportion to its grief and pain, but, as for me, thanks to one woman, I almost have the minutes numbered all along the way, and know them one from the other; and when I sit alone to dream,