"And now," he went on, after a pause, "for my plan. My ship is bound for any port to which the College may despatch her. She must sail in about four or five weeks. I shall take you both on board. Christine will be my wife—you shall be our companion. Perhaps one or two more may go with us. We shall take certain things that we shall want. I can procure all these without the least suspicion, and we shall sail to an island of which I know, where the air is always warm and the soil is fruitful. There the sailors shall land us and shall sail away, unless they please to join us. And there we will live out our allotted lives, without asking anything of the College. The revival of that lost part of your memory, Mildred, will serve you in place of what they could have given you. You agree? Well, that is settled, then. Let us go back."
But, as you shall see, this plan was never carried out.
When all went away that evening, Mildred remained behind.
"Christine," she said, "I have something to tell you. Take me somewhere—to some dark place—where we can whisper."
One might as well have talked at the top of his voice, just where they were, for any chance of being heard; but guilt made the woman tremble.
"Come into the Picture Gallery," said Christine, leading the way. "No one can hear what we say there. My dear, in the old days when people were going to conspire they always began by going to dark galleries, vaults, and secret places. This is quite delightful. I feel like a conspirator."
"Don't laugh at me, dear," said Mildred; "for, indeed, when you have heard what I have to say, you will feel very much more like a conspirator."
The room was in darkness, but for the moonlight which poured in through the windows of one side, and made queer work with the pictures on which it fell. At the end the moonlight shone through the door, hardly ever used, which led from the Gallery into the Garden of the College beyond.
"What is that?" Mildred caught Christine by the hand.