"Go, I implore you," she heard Yolande say, in a stifled voice; "alas! if you are discovered here, what will my tyrannical mistress say?"
"Just what she pleases," replied a voice, and then there was a sound—a kiss—which set the listener's blood on fire.
"I am watched by that hateful imp her dwarf, and live in daily terror of her discovering all," continued the sobbing Yolande; "and you know what her views are concerning yourself. Go—go—John Comyn, for the love of God and Saint Mary, go!"
"John Comyn!" muttered lady Gwendoleyne; "oh, wretch! that I had a dagger here to avenge this double perfidy!"
A pause ensued.
"To-morrow evening be it, then—at the Roman Peel," said a low voice.
"When the moon is over Campsie Fells."
"You will not forget, beloved Yolande."
"Oh, no—no; and let that meeting be our last, for another day will change the face of everything," wept Yolande.
Unable longer to restrain her fury, the white hand of Lady Comyn tore aside the arras, and she rushed into the apartment with all the aspect of an enraged Pythoness, while at the same moment the figure of a man vanished from the open window, and his steps were heard crashing through the bushes and trees without, as he retired hastily and in the dusk; but Gwendoleyne saw—or thought she saw—enough, to be convinced that the fugitive was no other than her husband!