Romayne took my arm when we were alone--we walked slowly from end to end
of the Belvidere. The moon was, by this time, low in the heavens; but
her mild mysterious light still streamed over the roof of the house and
the high heathy ground round it. I looked attentively at Romayne. He was
deadly pale; his hand shook as it rested on my arm--and that was all.
Neither in look nor manner did he betray the faintest sign of mental
derangement. He had perhaps needlessly alarmed the faithful old servant
by something that he had said or done. I determined to clear up that
doubt immediately.

"You left the table very suddenly," I said. "Did you feel ill?"

"Not ill," he replied. "I was frightened. Look at me--I'm frightened
still."

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he had put
to me downstairs.

"Do you call it a quiet night?"

Considering the time of year, and the exposed situation of the house,
the night was almost preternaturally quiet. Throughout the vast open
country all round us, not even a breath of air could be heard. The
night-birds were away, or were silent at the time. But one sound was
audible, when we stood still and listened--the cool quiet bubble of a
little stream, lost to view in the valley-ground to the south.