The day had done gloriously till noon, but the sky's mood changed as evening advanced. Clouds were up in grey masses by a and wind, and the June calm took flight like a girl in a new gown when rain threatens.  
By nightfall, a storm held orgy over the cliff. Billow upon billow of wind came roaring over the trees. The pines were a sky with their black brooms, creaking and moaning in chorus. Rain heavily, and over the cliff the storm thundered and cried with the long of the wind over rock and tree.
 
In Yeoland's the lamp and smoked, and the postern . Rain splashed upon the shivering ; the carpet breathed restlessly with the under the door. It was late, yet the girl was still at her devotions. Her thoughts were dishevelled and full of , while between her fingers the of her rosary moved listlessly, and her prayers were broken by the of the storm.
 
The of life had come in her to grappling point again. She could boast no in her own heart, and could but give to one of the two that clamoured for her favour. As her mood changed like the mood of a despot none too sure of his throne, so and despair were let loose time after time into the echoing courts and of her soul. She had neither the courage nor the force of will for the moment to compel herself either to satisfy her womanhood or sacrifice her instincts to a religious conviction. Man and God held each a half of her being. The man's face outstared God's face; God's law overshadowed the man's.
 
She had been carried into the palpitating of religious exaltation. The world had rolled at her feet. She had bathed her forehead in the infinite forethought of ; she had heard the stupendous sounding of the spheres. Then some sprite had plucked the wings from her shoulders, and she had fallen far into an abyss. After spiritual exaltation comes physical depression. Neither is a normal state; neither to the intellect. Peter-like, she had trod the waves; faith had played her false; the waters had gone over her soul.
 
As she knelt brooding before her crucifix, under the wavering lamp, she was into listening immobility, her rosary idle in her hand. A cry had come to her amid the multitudinous voices of the storm, a cry like a hail from a ship over a tumbling sea at night.
 
She waited and wondered. Again the cry rose above the babel of the wind. Was it from Fulviac's room; or a sentinel's shout from the cliff, seized upon and carried by the wind with distorting ? Midnight covered the world, and the girl was in an impressionable mood. She took the lamp from its bracket and, opening the door, peered down the gallery that led to Fulviac's room.
 
A sudden sound made her start back into the room, the lamp flashing tremulous beams upon the walls, and striking confusion into the shadows. A hand was beating heavily upon the postern.
 
She set the lamp in its bracket, crept to the door, put her ear to the lock and listened. The knocking had ceased, and in a of the wind she even fancied she could hear the sound of deep breathing. Her heart was hurrying, but her.
 
"Who's there?"
 
A sudden made such a that her voice died almost unheard in the night. There was a vague clangour without, as of a............