He started, and turned towards the spot whence came the welcome sound.
So gently he began singing the ballad. Nay—he sang it quite through, and yet no answer was made.
As he concluded, there were heard the sounds of steps near him. He fled into the shadow of some friendly trees, as his beating heart told him of the coming of the puritans.
Nearer and nearer came the sound. Surely, ’twas a picket of soldiers. They passed on, and their steps were lost in the distance. He stood again beneath the windows, and once more chanted the ballad she so loved.
She came to one of the casements—slowly—slowly—dreamily.
“It has ceased—the loved wind, which sings his song.”
She stepped through the open window on to the terrace.
“Ah, my Arthur, where art thou?”
“Here, dearest, by thy side—at thy feet.”
“Thou! is’t thou?” And she put her arms about him. “Thou dost not deceive me?”