Ethelberta uttered a soft exclamation. It was not caused by the surprise
she had felt, nor by the intrinsic interest of the sight, nor by want of
comprehension. It was a sudden realization of vague things hitherto
dreamed of from a distance only--a sense of novel power put into her
hands without request or expectation. A landscape was to be altered to
suit her whim. She had in her lifetime moved essentially larger
mountains, but they had seemed of far less splendid material than this;
for it was the nature of the gratification rather than its magnitude
which enchanted the fancy of a woman whose poetry, in spite of her
necessities, was hardly yet extinguished. But there was something more,
with which poetry had little to do. Whether the opinion of any pretty
woman in England was of more weight with Lord Mountclere than memories of
his boyhood, or whether that distinction was reserved for her alone; this
was a point that she would have liked to know.

The enjoyment of power in a new element, an enjoyment somewhat resembling
in kind that which is given by a first ride or swim, held Ethelberta to
the spot, and she waited, but sketched no more. Another tree-top swayed
and vanished as before, and the slit of sea was larger still. Her mind
and eye were so occupied with this matter that, sitting in her nook, she
did not observe a thin young man, his boots white with the dust of a long
journey on foot, who arrived at the castle by the valley-road from
Knollsea. He looked awhile at the ruin, and, skirting its flank instead
of entering by the great gateway, climbed up the scarp and walked in
through a breach. After standing for a moment among the walls, now
silent and apparently empty, with a disappointed look he descended the
slope, and proceeded along on his way.

Ethelberta, who was in quite another part of the castle, saw the black
spot diminishing to the size of a fly as he receded along the dusty road,