hat there was in her eyes.

For an instant I seemed to see in her an impulse to trust me and to lay
bare what troubled her. The feeling passed; her face regained its
natural hue, and she said petulantly,

"Why, yes, it seems fated that you should always be there, Simon, yet
Betty Nasroth said nothing of it."

"It may be well for you that I'm here," I answered hotly; for her scorn
stirred me to say what I should have left unsaid.

I do not know how she would have answered, for at the moment we heard a
shout from the watchman who stood looking over the sea. He hailed a boat
that came prancing over the waves; a light answered his signal. Who came
to the Castle? Barbara's eyes and mine sought the ship; we did not know
the stranger, but he was expected; for a minute later Darrell ran
quickly by us with an eager look on his face; with him was the Count
d'Albon, who had come with Madame, and Depuy, the Duke of York's
servant. They went by at the top of their speed and in visible
excitement. Barbara forgot her anger and haughtiness in fresh girlish
interest.

"Who can it be?" she cried, coming so near to me that her sleeve touched
mine, and leaning over the wall towards where the ship's black hull was
to be seen far below in the moonlight by the jetty.

"Doubtless it's the gentleman whom Madame expects," said I.

Many minutes passed, but through them Barbara and I stood silent side by
side. Then the party came back through the gate, which had been opened
for them. Depuy walked first, carrying a small trunk; two or three
servants followed with more luggage; then came Darrell in company with a
short man who walked with a bold and confident air. The rest passed us,
and the last pair approached. Now Darrell saw Mistress Barbara and
doffed his hat to her. The new-comer did the like and more; he halted
immediately opposite to us and looked curiously at her, sparing a
curious glance for me. I bowed; she waited unmoved until the gentleman
said to Darrell,

"Pray present me."

"This, madame," said Darrell, in whose voice there was a ring of
excitement and tremulous agitation, "is M. de Perrencourt, who has the
honour of serving Her Royal Highness the Duchess. This lady, sir, is
Mistress Barbara Quinton, maid of honour to the Duchess of York, and now
in attendance on Madame."

Barbara made a curtsey, M. de Perrencourt bowed. His eyes were fixed on
her face; he studied her openly and fearlessly, yet the regard was
difficult t