She stands still as a stone, white as a statue, waiting. She loves him;
she has hungered and thirsted for the sound of his voice, the sight of
his face, the clasp of his hand, all these weary, lonely months. In
some way it is her life or death she is to take from his hands
to-night. And now he is here.

She hears the great hall-door open and close with a clang; she hears
the step of the master in the hall--a quick, assured tread she would
know among a thousand; she hears a voice--a hearty, pleasant, manly,
English voice; a cheery laugh she remembers well.

"The Chief of Lara has returned again."

The quick, excitable blood leaps up from her heart to her face in a
rosy rush that makes her lovely. The eyes light, the lips part--she
takes a step forward, all anger, all fear, all neglect forgotten--a
girl in love going to meet her lover. The door is flung wide by an
impetuous hand, and wet and splashed, and tall and smiling, Sir Victor
Catheron stands before her.

"My dearest Inez!"

He comes forward, puts his arm around her, and touches his blonde
mustache to her flushed cheek.

"My dearest coz, I'm awfully glad to see you again, and looking so
uncommonly well too." He puts up his eye-glass to make sure of this
fact, then drops it "Uncommonly well," he repeats; "give you my word
I never saw you looking half a quarter so handsome before in my life.
Ah! why can't we all be Moorish princesses, and wear purple silks and