It was midnight. The squire’s horse, tethered in the wood across the
lane, champed upon its bit. Outside the Franklin’s dwelling the squire
crouched behind a briar bush, gazing at Alice’s window thirty feet up.
Not a star shone; the moon was overcast with dark clouds. A single bat
flew erratically by; the frogs croaked harshly from the pool in the old
moat. The darkness was laden with heavy mist that condensed in drops
upon Philip’s cloak. As he gazed at the window a sudden chill seized
him; he shivered slightly. He looked for some faint light; there was
none. He listened; there was no sound. All was silent as a grave. At
length he gave three long low whistles. An owl hooted from the orchard,
but there came no other reply. He thought he heard a sound from
Alice’s window, but no, he was mistaken. Silence--still silence.
An hour passed away. There was no sign of any kind from the window.
Another hour passed away, and another. The moon sickened behind the
clouds, the eastern sky lightened, an opal light burned on the horizon,
the air grew grey and the cocks began to answer each other from the
roosts.
Philip’s face was set hard and white. He rose to his feet, shaking
the water from his cloak. He gazed up at the window and in a sudden
paroxysm of rage shook his fist at its dark vacuity. With a bitter
curse on his lips he flung away into the semi-darkness of the breaking
morning.