"'Now is the witching hour when graveyards yawn'--the witching hour--aha!--Oh! poor pale ghost, I know thee--by thy night-black hair and sad, sweet eyes--I know thee. Alas, so young and dead--while I, alas, so old and much alive! Yet I, too, must die some day--soon, soon, beloved shadow. Then shall my shade encompass thine and float up with thee into the infinite. But now, aha! now is the witching hour! Oh! shades and phantoms, I summon thee, fairies, pixies, ghosts and goblins, come forth, and I will sing you and dance you."
"Tis a rare song, mine--and well liked by the quality,--you've heard it before, perchance--ay, ay for you, being dead, hear and see all things, oh, Wise Ones! Come, press round me, so. Now, hearkee, 'Oysters! oysters! and away we go."
"'Many a knight and lady fair My oysters fine would try, They are the finest oysters, sir, That ever you did buy. Oysters! who'll buy my oysters, oh!'"
The bushes rustled again, and into the dimness leapt a tall, dark figure that sang in a rich, sweet voice, and capered among the shadows with a fantastic dancing step, then grew suddenly silent and still. And in that moment the moon shone out again, shone down upon a strange, wild creature, bareheaded and bare of foot. A very tall man he was, with curling gray hair that hung low upon his shoulders, and upon his coat were countless buttons of all makes and kinds that winked and glittered in the moonlight, and jingled faintly as he moved. For a moment he stood motionless and staring, then, laying one hand to the gleaming buttons on his bosom, bowed with an easy, courtly grace.
"Who are you?" demanded Barnabas.
"Billy, sir, poor Billy--Sir William, perhaps--but, mum for that; the moon knows, but cannot tell, then why should I?"
"And what do you want--here?"
"To sing, sir, for you and the lady, if you will. I sing for high folk and low folk. I have many songs, old and new, grave and gay, but folk generally ask for my Oyster Song. I sing for rich and poor, for the sad and for the merry. I sing at country fairs sometimes, and sometimes to trees in lonely places--trees are excellent listeners always. But to-night I sing for--Them."
"And who are they?"
"The Wise Ones, who, being dead, know all things, and live on for ever. Ah, but they're kind to poor Billy, and though they have no buttons to give him, yet they tell him things sometimes. Aha! such things!--things to marvel at! So I sing for them always when the moon is full, but, most of all, I sing for Her."
"Who is she?"
"One who died, many years ago. Folk told her I was dead, killed at sea, and her heart broke--hearts will break--sometimes. So when she died, I put off the shoes from my feet, and shall go barefoot to my grave. Folk tell me that poor Billy's mad--well, perhaps he is--but he sees and hears more than folk think; the Wise Ones tell me things. You now; what do they tell me of you? Hush! You are on your way to London, they tell me--yes--yes, to London town; you are rich, and shall feast with princes, but youth is over-confident, and thus shall you sup with beggars. They tell me you came here to-night--oh, Youth!--oh, Impulse!--hasting--hasting to save a wanton from herself."
"Fool!" exclaimed Barnabas, turning upon the speaker in swift anger; for my lady's hand had freed itself from his clasp, and she had drawn away from him.
"Fool?" repeated the man, shaking his head, "nay, sir, I am only mad, folk tell me. Yet the Wise Ones make me their confidant, they tell me that she--this proud lady--is here to aid an unworthy brother, who sent a rogue instead."
"Brother!" exclaimed Barnabas, with a sudden light in his eyes.
"Who else, sir?" demands my lady, very cold and proud again all at once.
"But," stammered Barnabas, "but--I thought--"
"Evil of me!" says she.
"No--that is--I--I--Forgive me!"
"Sir, there are some things no woman can forgive; you dared to think--"
"Of the rogue who came instead," said Barnabas.
"Ah!--the rogue?"
"His name is Chichester," said Barnabas.
"Chichester!" she repeated, incredulously. "Chichester!"
"A tall, slender, dark man, with a scar on his cheek," added Barnabas.
"Do you mean he was here--here to meet me--alone?"
Now, at this she seemed to shrink into herself; and, all at once, sank down, crouching upon her knees, and hid her face from the moon.
"My lady!"
"Oh!" she sighed, "oh, that he should have come to this!"
"My Lady Cleone!" said Barnabas, and touched her very gently.
"And you--you!" she cried, shuddering away from him, "you thought me what--he would have made me! You thought I--Oh, shame! Ah, don't touch me!"
But Barnabas stooped and caught her hands, and sank upon his knees, and thus, as they knelt together in the moonlight, he drew her so that she must needs let him see her face.
"My lady," said he, very reverently, "my thought of you is this, that, if such great honor may be mine, I will marry you--to-night."
But hereupon, with her two hands still prisoned in his, and with the tears yet thick upon her lashes, she threw back her head, and laughed with her eyes staring into his. Thereat Barnabas frowned blackly, and dropped her hands, then caught her suddenly in his long arms, and held her close.
"By God!" he exclaimed, "I'd kiss you, Cleone, on that scornful, laughing mouth, only--I love you--and this is a solitude. Come away!"
"A solitude," she repeated; "yes, and he sent me here, to meet a beast--a satyr! And now--you! You drove away the other brute, oh! I can't struggle--you are too strong--and nothing matters now!" And so she sighed, and closed her eyes. Then gazing down upon her rich, warm beauty, Barnabas trembled, and loosed her, and sprang to his feet.
"I think," said he, turning away to pick up his cudgel, "I think--we had--better--go."
But my lady remained crouched upon her knees, gazing up at him under her wet lashes.
"You didn't--kiss me!" she said, wonderingly.
"You were so--helpless!" said Barnabas. "And I honor you because it was--your brother."
"Ah! but you doubted me first, you thought I came here to meet that--beast!"
"Forgive me," said Barnabas, humbly.
"Why should I?"
"Because I love you."
"So many men have told me that," she sighed.
"But I," said Barnabas, "I am the last, and it is written 'the last shall be first,' and I love you because you are passionate, and pure, and very brave."
"Love!" she exclaimed, "so soon; you have seen me only once!"
"Yes," he nodded, "it is, therefore, to be expected that I shall worship you also--in due season."
Now Barnabas stood leaning upon his stick, a tall, impassive figure; his voice was low, yet it thrilled in her ears, and there was that in his steadfast eyes before which her own wavered and fell; yet, even so, from the shadow of her hood, she must needs question