Marjorie Bowen

“ Delia turned wildly through the blackness and caught Jerome Caryl's arm.
"Who is it?" she cried. "Whom do you think it can be? Nay, answer me—could it be—he? Ah, no, my God—it is not possible—"
"Hush! hush!" said Jerome gently. "I must get a light."
"No, no, I could not bear to look," she shuddered wildly. "I will not bear it—why should you ask me to? It was his cloak—"
Jerome tenderly disengaged her hand.
"Take courage," he said. "If it should be Perseus he may not be—he may be—living."
She let him go; her hands fell to her sides.
"Perseus," she echoed vaguely. ”

“ There was no one abroad; the stillness of the snow lay over everything; every tenth house alone showed a lamp and between the way was in perfect darkness; yet Delia found in this dreariness only a strangeness that heightened the ecstasy of her divine elation. As she turned into the courtyard of "The Sleeping Queen" she saw Jerome Caryl dismounting by the light of the ostler's lanthorn. ”

“ She drew herself together in the chair and, half-swooning, dreams mounted to her brain; reality ebbed away; she was conscious of feeling cold and yet when she put her hand to her forehead she seemed to touch fire; she thought the Abbey was about her, the sunlight at her feet, and—he—stood on the bishop's grave—"call me John," he said—Sir John Dalrymple, Master of Stair—she repeated the names to herself—it was written in large characters: "Mr. Wedderburn is the Master of Stair"—how they lied! Where was Jerome Caryl? ”