“The wind?”
“No! it was not the wind. There is no wind; though, indeed, it’s dark enough for a storm. I fancied I heard horses going along the gravel-walk. Extinguish the light, Lora—so that we may steal up to the window, and see.”
Lora protruded her pretty lips close up to the candle, and blew it out.
The chamber was in utter darkness.
All unrobed as she was, Marion glided up to the casement; and, cautiously drawing aside the curtain, looked out into the lawn.
She could see nothing: the night was dark as pitch.
She listened all the more attentively—her hearing sharpened by the idea of some danger to her lover—of which, during all that day, she had been suffering from a vague presentiment.
Sure enough, she had heard the hoof-strokes of horses on the gravelled walk: for she now heard them again—not so loud as before—and each instant becoming more indistinct.
This time Lora heard them too.
It might be colts straying from the pastures of the park? But the measured fell of their feet, with an occasional clinking of shod hoofs, proclaimed them—even to the inexperienced ears that were listening—to be horses guided, and ridden.