He heard a low knocking at the gate. He listened. Yes, there was no
mistake. He went to it, and asked quietly:

"Who is there?"

There was no reply. Still the knocking went on. He quietly opened the
gate, and threw it back. A figure in white stepped through and slowly
passed him. It was Alice Wingfield. He spoke to her. She did not
answer. He went close to her and saw that she was asleep!

She was making for the entrance door. He took her hand gently, and led
her into a side door, and on into the ballroom. She moved towards a
window through which the moonlight streamed, and sat on a cushioned bench
beneath it. It was the spot where he had seen her at the dance. She
leaned forward, looking into space, as she did at him then. He moved
and got in her line of vision.

The picture was weird. She wore a soft white chamber-gown, her hair
hung loose on her shoulders, her pale face cowled it in. The look was
inexpressibly sad. Over her fell dim, coloured lights from the stained-
glass windows; and shadowy ancestors looked silently down from the
armour-hung walls.

To Gaston, collected as he was, it gave an ominous feeling. Why did she
come here even in her sleep? What did that look mean? He gazed intently
into her eyes.

All at once her voice came low and broken, and a sob followed the words:

"Gaston, my brother, my brother!"