Ever since he saw Honor hide away that scrap of paper in her dress he has been tormented with jealous fears.
"If the fellow were once out of the country I should feel all right," he tells himself. But the fellow is not out of the country—nay, may be in the immediate neighborhood for all he can tell, and in consequence he is racked with anxiety.
From the terrace he can see the ruins clearly at first; then the mist partly blots them out, and presently he can only guess at their position. But he has no interest in the ruins. He is not in the least superstitious; and certainly he does not believe in the old abbot.
He has reached the end of the walk and turned to go back, when the sight of a tall slight figure, coming rapidly down the steps not many yards away, brings him to a sudden halt.
"Ah!" he says, as he recognizes Honor. "Then it was not without cause that I've been so uneasy! A warning, these people would call it, I suppose."
It is a terrible blow to him, striking to the very root of his love. He hates mystery; and to find this girl, whom he had thought perfect in her maidenly pride and purity, stealing out in the dark from her father's house fills him with dismay.
For an instant he feels tempted to follow and speak to her, then he turns back. He can hardly control himself so far as to speak calmly, and every faint far-away noise makes him start.
"She is safe enough," he tells himself a dozen times; but he finds no comfort in his own assertions.
In his heart he feels convinced that she has gone to meet Power Magill; and in his jealous fury he almost hates her for it.
"Where is Honor?" her father asks fretfully; and then, as time goes on and she does not come in, he says again, "Where can Honor be?"