But the captain shook his head.
“No, I cannot come,” he said; “really I cannot, much as I should like to do so. Dr. Stewart,” he added, a little hesitatingly, “I trust you will not think me discourteous if I take my cousin aside for a moment.”
“Certainly not,” Stewart assured him.
“I will join you on the terrace,” said Bloem, and Stewart, nodding good-by to the captain, followed the waiter, who had stood by during this exchange of greetings, and now led the way to a little table at one corner of the broad balcony looking out over the square.
“Shall I pour the coffee, sir?” he asked, as Stewart sat down.
“No; I will wait for my companion,” and, as the waiter bowed and stepped back, Stewart leaned forward with a deep breath of admiration.
Below him lay the green level of the Domhof, its close-clipped trees outlined stiffly against the lights behind them. Beyond rose the choir of the great cathedral, with its fretted pinnacles, and flying buttresses, and towering roof. By day, he had found its exterior somewhat cold and bare and formal, lacking somehow the subtle spirit of true Gothic; but nothing could be more beautiful than it was now, shimmering in the moonlight, bathed in luminous shadow, lace-like and mysterious.
He was still absorbed in this fairy vision when Bloem rejoined him. Even in the half-light of the terrace, Stewart could see that he was deeply moved. His face, usually glowing with healthy color, was almost haggard; his eyes seemed dull and sunken.
“No bad news, I hope?” Stewart asked.
Without answering him, Bloem signaled the waiter to pour the coffee, and sat watching him in silence.