They turned and walked towards the gate, and, by the time they reached it, all superstitious thoughts had vanished—at any rate, from Arthur’s mind, for he recollected that he had set himself a task to do, and that now would be the time to do it. Absorbed in this reflection, he forgot his politeness, and passed first through the turnstile. On the further side he paused, and looked earnestly into his beloved’s face. Their eyes met, and there was that in his that caused her to swiftly drop her own. A silence ensued as they stood by the gate. He broke it.
“It is a lovely night. Let us walk through the ruins.”
“I shall wet my feet: the dew must be falling.”
“There is no dew falling to-night. Won’t you come?”
“Let us go to-morrow; it is later than I generally go in. Pigott will wonder what has become of me.”
“Never mind Pigott. The night is too fine to waste asleep; besides, you know, one should always look at ruins by moonlight. Please come.”
She looked at him doubtfully, hesitated, and came.
“What do you want to see?” she said presently, with as near an approach to irritation as he had ever heard her indulge in. “That is the famous window that Mr. Fraser always goes into raptures about.”
“It is beautiful. Shall we sit down here and look at it?”
They sat down on a low mass of fallen masonry some fifteen paces from the window. Around them lay a delicate tracery of shadows, whilst they themselves were seated in the eye of the moonlight, and remained for a while as silent and as still as though they had been the shades of the painted figures that had once filled the stony frame above them.