n her fierce directness she would not
permit me.

"There is a maid who sits in one of the tall grey houses of which you
speak, or among the moorland farms--sits and waits for you, and you
write to her. You are always writing--writing. It is to that girl. You
will pass away and think no more of Lucia!"

And I--what could or did I reply? I think that I did the best, for I
made no answer at all, but only drew her so close to me that the
adorable chin, being thrown out farther than ever, rested for an instant
on my shoulder.

"Lucia," I said to her--"not Countess any more--little Saint Lucy of the
Eyes, hear me. I am but a poor moorland lad, with little skill to speak
of love; but with my heart I love you even thus--and thus--and thus."

And I think that she believed, for it comes natural to Galloway to make
love well.

In the same moment we heard the sound of voices, and there were Henry
and the Count walking to and fro on the terrace above us in the blessed
dark, prosing of guns and battues and shooting.

Lucia trembled and drew away from me, but I put my finger to her lip and
drew her nearer the wall, where the creepers had turned into a glorious
wine-red. There we stood hushed, not daring to move; but holding close
the one to the other as the feet of the promenaders waxed and waned
above us. Their talk of birds and beasts came in wafts of boredom to us,
thus standing hand in hand.

I shivered a little, whereat the Countess, putting a hand behind me,
drew a fold of her great scarlet cloak round me protectingly as a mother
might. So, with her mouth almost in my ear, she whispered, "This is
delightful--is it not so? Pray, just hearken to Nicholas: 'With that I
fired.' 'Then we tried the covert.' 'The lock jammed.' 'Forty-four
brace.' Listen to the huntsmen! Shall we startle them with the horn,
tra-la?" And she thrilled with laughter in my ear there in the blissful
dark, till I had to put that over her mouth which silenced her.

"Hush, Lucy, they will hear! Be sage, littlest," I said in Italian, like
one who orders, for (as I have said) Galloway even at twenty-three is no
dullard in the things of love.

"Poor Nicholas!" she said again.

"Nay, poor Henry, say rather!" said I, as the footsteps drew away to the
verge of the terrace, waxing fine and thin as they went farther from us.

"Hear me," said she. "I had better tell you now. Nicholas wishes me
greatly to marry one high in power in our own country--one whose