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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 influence would permit him to go back to his home in Russia and live as a prince as before.”

“But you will not–you cannot–” I began to say to her.

“Hush!” she said, laughing a little in my ear. “I certainly shall if you cry out like that”–for the footsteps were drawing nearer again. We leaned closer together against the parapet in the little niche where the creepers grew. And the dark grew more fragrant. She drew the great cloak about us both, round my head also. Her own was close to mine, and the touch of her hair thrilled me, quickening yet more the racing of my heart, and making me light-headed like unaccustomed wine.

“Countess!” I said, searching for words to thrill her heart as mine was thrilled already.

“Monsieur!” she replied, and drew away the cloak a little, making to leave me, but not as one that really intends to go.

“Lucia,” I said hastily, “dear Lucy–“

“Ah!” she said, and drew the cloak about us again.

And what we said after that, is no matter to any.

But we forgot, marvel at it who will, to hearken to the footsteps that came and went. They were to us meaningless as the lapse of the waves on the shore, pattering an accompaniment above the soft sibilance of our whispered talk, making our converse sweeter.

Yet we had done well to listen a little.

“… I think it went in there,” said the voice of the Count, very near to us and just above our heads. “I judge it was a white owl.”