“A holy priest,” she was thinking; “the friend of all in distress.  Why not he?  Would he, could he help me?  Oh, good father, if you could but hear me, if I could but reach your ears!  How far away he is, what a little speck he seems away down there!  Why, I believe he is—­yes, he is looking up at the castle.  Can he see me?  But, pshaw!  How could he know that I am held here against my will?  Even if he sees my handkerchief, how can he know that I want him to help me?” She was waving her handkerchief to the lonely figure in the road.  To her amazement he paused, apparently attracted by the signal.  For a brief instant he gazed upward, then dropped his cowled head and moved slowly away.  She watched him until the trees of the valley hid his form from view, and she was alone with the small hope that he might again some day pass over the lonely road and understand.

When the dinner gong rang, she was ready to face the party, but there was a lively thumping in her breast as she made her way down the steps.  At the bottom she was met by Lady Saxondale, and a rnoment later Lord Bob carne up, smiling and good-natured.  There was a sudden rush of warmth to her heart, the bubbling over of some queer emotion, and she was wringing their hands with a gladness she could not conceal.

“I am so lonely up there, Lady Saxondale,” she said, simply, unreservedly.

“Try to look upon us as friends, Dorothy; trust us, and you will find more happiness here than you suspect.  Castle Craneycrow was born and went to ruin in the midst of feud and strife; it has outlived its feudal days, so let there be no war between us,” said her ladyship, earnestly.

“If we must live together within its battered walls, let us hoist a flag of truce, pick up the gauntlet and tie up the dogs of war,” added bluff Lord Bob.

Dorothy smiled, and said:  “There is one here who is not and can never be included in our truce.  I ask you to protect me from him.  That is the one condition I impose.”

“You have no enemies here, my dear.”

“But I have a much too zealous friend.”

“Last call for dinner in the dining-car,” shouted Dickey Savage, corning down the stairs hurriedly.  “I was afraid I’d be late.  Glad to see you.  I haven’t had a chance to ask how you enjoyed that view from the tower the other day.”  She had given him her hand and he was shaking it rapturously.

“It was glorious, and I haven’t had the opportunity to ask if you have explored the hills and forest.”

“I’m afraid of snakes and other creeping things,” he said, slyly.

They had gone to the dining-room when Quentin entered.  He was paler than usual, but he was as calm, as easy and as self-possessed as if he had never known a conscience in all his life.  She was not looking at him when he bowed to her, but she heard his clear voice say: 

“I am glad to see you, Dorothy.”