But there were some consequences of her captivity which she could not easily shake off. She was accustomed to dancing all night, and sleep did not come easily to her. Sometimes at night she could still hear a mournful fiddle and a pipe playing fairy tunes, compelling her to dance – though it was the last thing in the world that she wanted to do.

“Talk to me,” she would say to Flora and Aunt Greysteel. “Talk to me and I think I can master it.”

Then one or both of them would sit up with her and talk to her of everything they could think of. But sometimes Arabella found that the impulse to movement – any sort of movement – was too strong to be denied, and then she would take to pacing the bedchamber she shared with Flora; and on several occasions Dr Greysteel and Frank kindly sacrificed their own sleep to walk with her in the night-streets of Padua.

On one such night in April they were strolling about near to the Cathedral; Arabella and Dr Greysteel were speaking of their departure for England which had been arranged for the following month. Arabella found the prospect of being amongst all her English friends again a little daunting and Dr Greysteel was reassuring her. Suddenly Frank gave an exclamation of surprize and pointed upwards.

The stars were shifting and changing; in the patch of sky above them were new constellations. A little further on was an ancient-looking stone arch. There was nothing exactly unusual in this; Padua is a city full of intriguing doorways, arches and arcades. But this arch was not like the others. Padua is built of mediaeval bricks and consequently many of its streets are a pleasing pink-gold colour. This arch was built of dour, dark northern stones and upon each side was a statue of John Uskglass, his face half-hidden by a cap with raven wings. Just within the arch a tall figure was standing.

Arabella hesitated. “You will not go far?” she said to Dr Greysteel.

“Frank and I shall be here,” Dr Greysteel told her. “We shall not move from this spot. You have only to call us.”

She went on alone. The person within the doorway was reading. He looked up as she approached, with the old, dear expression of not quite remembering where he was or what he had do with the world outside his book.

“You have not brought a thunderstorm with you this time,” she said.

“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Strange gave a slightly self-conscious laugh. “That was a little overdone perhaps. Not altogether in the best of taste. I believe I spent too much time in Lord Byron’s society when I was in Venice. I caught something of his style.”

They walked on a little and at every moment new patterns of stars appeared above their heads.

“You look well, Arabella,” he said. “I feared … What did I fear? Oh! a thousand different things. I feared you would not speak to me. But here you are. I am very glad to see you.”