A clock struck twelve. He held out his hand. "Do as I tell you. Sleep well, and look upon this midnight meeting as a dream."
His touch gave her a curious sensation. "Your hand is quite cold," she said. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing is the matter."
"It is as cold as death," she repeated.
"Death—what do you know of death? Go to bed, go back and sleep. Dream happy dreams. Good-night."
He opened her door for her, and waited till she had gone through and had closed it behind her. She heard his steps going softly down the corridor. Then she shot the bolt and quietly undressed. It was very strange, but she had no thought of disobeying him, no thought now of going to Lady Horace. She felt soothed and satisfied, and yet through all there was a certain thrill of excitement. His eyes with their bright intent look seemed to be gazing at her in the darkness. There was something compelling in the look. It haunted her and gave her a strange dreamy feeling. She did not sleep for a long time. She pictured him scouring the plains on his black horse Osman, and working off the fever of his blood, the hilt of his pistol gleaming as his cloak flew back in the wind. In her fancy he seemed like some mediaeval knight. What a contrast to the dull prosaic bushmen round her, with their eternal talk about cattle and horses, their petty interests and low aims! This man spoke of his star. How strange that he should have used that phrase! She thought of her talk with Hallett, and of how she had said that the man she loved must have a purpose and a destiny, and a star.
