ould she love him, then, if I were
to tell her the whole truth? If I was unworthy of her six years ago, how
much less am I worthy of her now! Let me think, now. There are three
things I could do. First, I could go away and send to her telling her
that Signor Ricordo was an adventurer and had to fly for fear of his
life. Then all would be as though I had never come. No, it would not.
Then I hated her; but now, yes, I believe I hate her still! But I should
give up my scheme of vengeance, and let her remain to live her own life.
That is the first. Then, second, I could carry out my scheme. I could go
on as I had marked it out. I could leave her, wounded and disgraced, as
I should know she would feel herself wounded and disgraced. And oh, the
thought of revenge is sweet! Then, third, I could go to her, cap in
hand, and tell her the whole story--that Leicester was dead, but that he
has risen again. But in either case I should have to leave her; I should
go away, and never see her again. And could I bear that? No. And that
reminds me, there is another way. I, Signor Ricordo, could marry her. I
could live here. I could play the squire; I could be happy. But could I?
To know all the time that I was a living lie! Besides, the truth would
be bound to come out. No, there would be no rest nor peace that way."

Everything, he scarcely knew why, was changed. The thing he had longed
for was within his reach, and yet he did not want to stretch out his
hand and grasp it. The kiss which still burned on his lips somehow
roused within him new feelings. The story of the country-woman changed
the course of his thoughts. He still longed for revenge, but the
sweetness of it was gone.

There was a change in the look of the sky. Right in front of him, and
behind the tor, a great blue-black cloud was rising rapidly. In a few
minutes it seemed to cover the whole of the southern horizon. The wind
blew colder, the air seemed charged with sulphur. Not that he minded.
Indeed, he scarcely noticed the change of the atmosphere. Presently the
sun seemed to change colour. First it shone through a great purple haze,
and then it was blotted out.

He found himself shivering. Across the wild wastes of the moors he heard
a moan, like the moan of some despairing monster. He knew it was only
the wind, but to him there was a kind of personality behind it. The
great spirit of the moors was breathing across the broad expanse, just
as he had heard the spirit of the