The boundless interest the people took in the combats, and especially
that of the thirty, seemed to him a strange and inexplicable phenomenon.
It did not excite him in the least; he could turn his back upon it
without hesitation. He would, indeed, have left the crowd, and spent the
day in the forest, or on the hills, but he could not leave Aurora. He
must be near her; he must see her, though he was miserable. Now he
feared that the last moment would come, and that he should not exchange
a word with her.

He could not, with any show of pretext, prolong his stay beyond the
sunset; all were already gone, with the exceptions mentioned. It would
be against etiquette to remain longer, unless specially invited, and he
was not specially invited. Yet he lingered, and lingered. His horse was
ready below; the groom, weary of holding the bridle, had thrown it over
an iron hook in the yard, and gone about other business. The sun
perceptibly declined, and the shadow of the beeches of the forest began
to descend the grassy slope. Still he stayed, restlessly moving, now in
the dining chamber, now in the hall, now at the foot of the staircase,
with an unpleasant feeling that the servants looked at him curiously,
and were watching him.

Oliver had gone long since, riding with his new friend Lord Durand; they
must by now be half-way through the forest. Forced by the inexorable
flight of time, he put his foot upon the staircase to go up to the
drawing-room and bid farewell to the Baroness. He ascended it, step by
step, as a condemned person goes to his doom. He stayed to look out of
the open windows as he went by; anything to excuse delay to himself. He
reached the landing at last, and had taken two steps towards the door,
when Aurora's maid, who had been waiting there an hour or more for the
opportunity, brushed past him, and whispered, "The Rose arbour."