She thought Percy must soon be coming this way. Though it was so late, she knew that he would not go to bed. After the events of the night, his ruling passion, strong in death, would be holding him in its thrall.
She too felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue; when she reached the secluded path beside the river, she peered eagerly up and down, and listened for a sound.
Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the waters she could hear a rustle and the scrunching of the fine gravel under carefully measured footsteps. She waited a while. The footsteps seemed to draw nearer, and soon, although the starlit night was very dark, she perceived a cloaked and hooded figure approaching cautiously toward her.
“Who goes there?” she called suddenly.
The figure paused: then came rapidly forward, and a voice said timidly:
“Ah! Lady Blakeney!”
“Who are you?” asked Marguerite peremptorily.
“It is I... Desiree Candeille,” replied the midnight prowler.
“Demoiselle Candeille!” ejaculated Marguerite, wholly taken by surprise. “What are you doing here? alone? and at this hour?”
“Sh-sh-sh...” whispered Candeille eagerly, as she approached quite close to Marguerite and drew her hood still lower over her eyes. “I am all alone ... I wanted to see someone—you if possible, Lady Blakeney... for I could not rest... I wanted to know what had happened.”