CHAPTER XVIII.

REFUGE.


Fixing her telescope on the motionless form, that she might see it at
once when the morning came, Watho went down from the tower to
Photogen's room. He was much better by this time, and before she left
him, he had resolved to leave the castle that very night. The darkness
was terrible indeed, but Watho was worse than even the darkness, and
he could not escape in the day. As soon, therefore, as the house
seemed still, he tightened his belt, hung to it his hunting-knife, put
a flask of wine and some bread in his pocket, and took his bow and
arrows. He got from the house, and made his way at once up to the
plain. But what with his illness, the terrors of the night, and his
dread of the wild beasts, when he got to the level he could not walk a
step further, and sat down, thinking it better to die than to live. In
spite of his fears, however, sleep contrived to overcome him, and he
fell at full length on the soft grass.

He had not slept long when he woke with such a strange sense of
comfort and security, that he thought the dawn at least must have
arrived. But it was dark night about him. And the sky--no, it was not
the sky, but the blue eyes of his naiad looking down upon him! Once
more he lay with his head in her lap, and all was well, for plainly
the girl feared the darkness as little as he the day.

"Thank you," he said. "You are like live armour to my heart; you keep