his memory: could it
be Florimel? Alas! it was not likely she would now be wandering about
alone. But if it were! Then for one endeavor more to rouse her slumbering
conscience! He would call up all the associations of the last few months
she had spent in the place, and, with the spirit of her father, as it
were, hovering over her, conjure her, in his name, to break with Liftore.

He rowed swiftly to the Psyche, beached and drew up the dinghy, and
climbed the dune. Plainly enough, it was a lady who sat there. It might be
one from the upper town enjoying the lovely night: it _might_ be
Florimel, but how could she have got away, or wished to get away, from her
newly-arrived guests? The voices of several groups of walkers came from
the high-road behind the dune, but there was no other figure to be seen
all along the sands. He drew nearer. The lady did not move. If it were
Florimel, would she not know him as he came, and would she wait for him?

He drew nearer still. His heart gave a great throb. Could it be, or was
the moon weaving some hallucination in his troubled brain? If it was a
phantom, it was that of Lady Clementina: if but modeled of the filmy
vapors of the moonlight, and the artist his own brain, the phantom was
welcome as joy. His spirit seemed to soar aloft in the yellow air and hang
hovering over and around her, while his body stood rooted to the spot,
like one who fears, by moving nigher, to lose the lovely vision of a
mirage. She sat motionless, her gaze on the sea. Malcolm bethought himself
that she could not know him in his fisher-dress, and must take him for
some rude fisherman staring at her. He must go at once, or approach and
address her. He came forward at once. "My lady!" he said.

She did not start, neither did she speak. She did not even turn her face.
She rose first, then turned and held out her hand. Three steps more and he
had it in his, and his eyes looked straight into hers. Neither spoke. The
moon shone full on Clementina's face. There was no illumination fitter for
that face than the moonlight, and to Malcolm it was lovelier than ever.
Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to him, for certainly never had
the eyes in it rested on his with such a lovely and trusting light in
them. A moment she stood, then slowly sank again upon the sand and drew
her skirts about her with a dumb show of invitation. The place where she
sat was a little terraced hollow in the slope, forming a convenient seat.
M