"Who is he?" demanded Paslow in a tone of anger.
"I don't know. Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer with a fine fortune, and who is fifty years of age, and----"
Here there came a flash of blue lightning, and then a loud crash of thunder. Afterwards the strong wind hurtled towards them, bearing on its wings the drenching rain. Vivian was startled, and caught Beatrice to his breast in the darkness.
"Darling, will you marry me?" he asked, although she was scarcely mistress yet of her emotions in the storm and gloom.
Before she could answer, the pent-up feelings of the day found relief in a burst of hysterical tears. Pulling out her handkerchief she pressed it to her eyes, and at the moment felt the key, entangled in the handkerchief, fall out.
"Oh," she gasped, "the key! it has fallen out of my pocket!"
"I'll find it!" and Paslow dropped on to the grass, now wet, while the rain came down in torrents. "I have it!" he said, wondering at this queer disconnected wooing, and rose with the key in his hand. "My dear, let us stand further under the tree, and then we can talk."
"No! no!" Beatrice was quite unstrung by this time. "I must go home at once. It is late, and my father--my--ah! who is that?"
Flash after flash of lightning, blue and vivid, illuminated the haunted tree, as though once again the witches were holding their demoniac revels. A short distance away stood a small man. Neither of the lovers could see his features in the fitful illumination. Vivian, with a cry of anger, ran straight towards the figure, and it disappeared. Tales of the spectres said to haunt the tree occurred to the mind of Beatrice, and, unstrung, and not mistress of herself, she left the oak and hurried across the glade. The lightning was flashing incessantly, and the thunder roared like artillery, while the steady rain spattered through the trees' tops. Trying to find the path which led to the lane, Beatrice ran on. She fancied she heard the voice of Paslow shouting, but again pealed the thunder to drown what he said. Losing her head--and small wonder, so terrific was the storm--Beatrice scrambled on through many paths, and finally, when there came an unusually vivid flash, she sank with a cry of terror under some bushes, and fainted on the streaming ground. How long she remained unconscious she did not know.
When she did regain her senses, a mighty wind was blowing through the woods, bending the stoutest trees like saplings. Through the swaying boughs, the girl could see the flicker of lightning racing across the sky; and every now and then boomed sullen thunder, loud and menacing. With an effort she gathered her aching limbs together and staggered forward blindly through the wood. She could not tell what the hour was, or guess where she was going, but by some miracle she managed to arrive at the lane. Even then, she did not recognise where she was, but ran blindly along in the hope of finding The Camp. There was no sign of Vivian, or of the man who had been watching them under the Witches' Oak. All around was the roaring darkness, laced with vivid lightning and alive with furious rain and wind. Like a demented creature, Beatrice sped along in mud and slush, kilting up her petticoats to run the faster. And ever overhead screamed the storm, while the wild winds tore and buffeted the tormented trees.