s not lap about the prow. The night
grew suddenly very cold. Somewhere in the darkness over the Black Water
the watching surfaceman heard some one call three times the name of
Gregory Jeffray. It sounded like a young child's voice. And for very
fear he ran in and shut the door, well knowing that for twenty years no
boat had plied there.

It was noted as a strange thing that, on the same night on which Sir
Gregory Jeffray was lost, the last of the Allens of the old ferry-house
died in the Crichton Asylum. Barbara Allen was, without doubt, mad to
the end, for the burden of her latest cry was, "He kens noo! he kens
noo! The Lord our God is a jealous God! Now let Thy servant depart in
peace!"

But Gregory Jeffray was never seen again by water or on shore. He had
heard the cry across the Black Water.

III

SAINT LUCY OF THE EYES

[_Taken from the Journals of Travel written by Stephen Douglas, sometime
of Culsharg in Galloway_.]

I.

_O mellow rain upon the clover tops;
O breath of morning blown o'er meadow-sweet;
Lush apple-blooms from which the wild bee drops
Inebriate; O hayfield scents, my feet_

_Scatter abroad some morning in July;
O wildwood odours of the birch and pine,
And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh,
Than olive sweeter or Sicilian vine_;--

_Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm--
Not blest Arabia,
Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm.
Such heart's desire into my heart can draw_.

II.

_O scent of sea on dreaming April morn
Borne landward on a steady-blowing wind;
O August breeze, o'er leagues of rustling corn,
Wafts of clear air from uplands left behind_,

_And outbreathed sweetness of wet wallflower bed,
O set in mid-May depth of orchard close,
Tender germander blue, geranium red;
O expressed sweetness of sweet briar-rose_;

_Too gross, corporeal, absolute are ye,
Ye help not to define
That subtle fragrance, delicate and free,
Which like a vesture clothes this Love of mine_.

"_Heart's Delight_."

CHAPTER I

THE WOMAN OF THE RED EYELIDS

It was by Lago d'Istria that I found my pupil. I had come without halt
from Scotland to seek him. For the first time I had crossed the Alps,
and from the snow-flecked mountain-side, where the dull yellow-white
patches remained longest, I saw beneath me the waveless plain of
Lombardy.

The land of Lombardy--how the words had run in my d