CHAPTER V.


Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. She
has thrown open the casement, and now--the sleeves of her dressing-gown
falling back from her bare rounded arms--leans out so that the
descending night-dews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.

She is wrapped in melancholy; her whole soul is burdened with thoughts
and regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed and
perplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the love
she once had deemed her own.

The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair falls
in a luxuriant shower about her shoulders; her plaintive face is raised
from earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfort
there.

The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long since
ceased their song; the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the stately
trees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats past
her and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar the
serenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.

Yet, hark, what is this? A footstep on the gravel path below arouses her
attention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and,
turning her head, glances in the direction of the sound.

Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as though
absorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward until