"What is it?" "The night," she answered. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Surely he was imagining this picture. It would not burden him with any obligation. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. “I am sure she will be very happy indeed with Doctor Ralph.
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