It was the
face of Lily Bozard, my lost love, beautiful as of yore, though grown
older and stamped with the seal of some great sorrow. I saw, and so
deeply was I stirred at the sight, that had it not been for the low
paling to which I clung, I must have fallen to the earth, and a deep
groan broke from my lips.
She heard the groan and ceased her song, then catching sight of the
figure of a man, she stopped and turned as though to fly. I stood quite
still, and wonder overcoming her fear, she drew nearer and spoke in the
sweet low voice that I remembered well, saying, 'Who wanders here so
late? Is it you, John?'
Now when I heard her speak thus a new fear took me. Doubtless she was
married and 'John' was her husband. I had found her but to lose her more
completely. Of a sudden it came into my mind that I would not discover
myself till I knew the truth. I advanced a pace, but not so far as to
pass from the shadow of the shrubs which grow here, and taking my stand
in such a fashion that the moonlight did not strike upon my face, I
bowed low in the courtly Spanish fashion, and disguising my voice spoke
as a Spaniard might in broken English which I will spare to write down.
'Madam,' I said, 'have I the honour to speak to one who in bygone years
was named the Senora Lily Bozard?'
'That was my name,' she answered. 'What is your errand with me, sir?'
Now I trembled afresh, but spoke on boldly.
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