CHAPTER XXXIV.

I walked on slowly and with the downcast brow of a man absorbed in
meditation. I had gained the broad place in which the main streets of the
town converged, when I was overtaken by a violent storm of rain. I
sought shelter under the dark archway of that entrance to the district of
Abbey Hill which was still called Monk's Gate. The shadow within the arch
was so deep that I was not aware that I had a companion till I beard my
own name, close at my side. I recognized the voice before I could
distinguish the form of Sir Philip Derval.

"The storm will soon be over," said he, quietly. "I saw it coming on in
time. I fear you neglected the first warning of those sable clouds, and
must be already drenched."

I made no reply, but moved involuntarily away towards the mouth of the
arch.

"I see that you cherish a grudge against me!" resumed Sir Philip. "Are
you, then, by nature vindictive?"

Somewhat softened by the friendly tone of this reproach, I answered, half
in jest, half in earnest,--

"You must own, Sir Philip, that I have some little reason for the
uncharitable anger your question imputes to me. But I can forgive you, on
one condition."