The young duke bit his lip.
"You will return to me?" he asked.
"Not to-night."
She vanished through a dimly-lighted rotunda, leaving his grace gazing eagerly after her.
Crouching upon her knees by her chamber window, in the cold stream of moonlight, with clasping hands and yearning eyes, Margaret Walsingham questioned the silent heavens through the long hours for the meaning of the vision.
And yet the man had been her enemy!
CHAPTER IX.
A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE.
Through the dark fens, and the yielding morass, and the spicy sycamore grove, and the mossy walnut woods of Virginia, stole a gray-faced man; panting, hunger-smitten, weary; starting at every crash of the rotten underbrush, stopping ever with dilating eye to peer from the top of every hill into the valley beneath.