A small white hand—decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon—grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure—soon after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the garden—could be no other than that of Louise Poindexter.
It was she.
For a second or two the lady stood listening. She heard, or fancied she heard, the dip of an oar. She might be mistaken; for the stridulation of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. No matter. The hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand upon punctilios as to time—especially after spending two hours of solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many. With noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided sylph-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her.
Who can describe the sweetness of such embrace—strange to say, sweeter from being stolen? Who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at such a moment—too sacred to be touched by the pen?
It is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes proper, or even possible to report them.
Thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative:—
“To-morrow night you will meet me again—to-morrow night, dearest Maurice?”
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,—if I were free to say the word.”
“And why not? Why are you not free to say it?”
“To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo.”