A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night
of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but
with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.
Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as
though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow
in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little
space it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It
moved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.
"Martin!"
Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he
realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood--only
Mad Martin.
"I have waited for you, Sir John."
"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have
been. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"
"Wandering and dreaming."
"In a mad mood, eh?"
"Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-song
tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his
lips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"
"In London, Martin.
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