CHAPTER VII.
A SPECTER IN THE MONKS’ CHAPEL.
While Cordelia turned to speak with her maid, our hero, having shaken himself to make sure that he was awake and in possession of his sober senses, looked forward to see how far they were from the summit of the crag.
It was close at hand—not a hundred yards distant. He was surprised. He had supposed it still a long way off. But his surprise vanished when he had consulted his watch—half-past four!
“Mercy! Dear lady! Do you know what time it is?”
“No. I have not thought of it.”
He told her; but she was not alarmed. Even though it should be dark when they reached the castle, it would not matter.
“Not if the weather holds fair,” returned the guide. “I don’t like the looks of those clouds rising away to the eastward.”
“I thought storm-clouds always came from the sea.”
“No, no. Clouds that give us long rains generally come from that direction; but, if you will remember, I think you will find that our severest storms are brewed on the other hand. But we will not complain in advance. Ah!”
“Oh! Oh, is it not beautiful!” It was Mary Seymour who had thus exclaimed.