Magdalena did not see Trennahan alone again; he did not ask her to ride with him on the following morning, and left for town immediately after breakfast.  But before taking his seat in the char-a-banc he held her hand a moment and assured her with such emphasis that he owed the great pleasure of his visit entirely to her, that her spirits, which had been in weeds, flaunted into colour and song; and she went at once to her nook in the woods, feeling that the fire in her mind was nothing less than creative.

But she did not write for some time.  The sun was already intensely hot; even in those depths the air was heavy, the heat waves shimmered among the young green of the undergrowth.

Magdalena stretched herself out lazily and looked up into the green recesses of the trees.  The leaves were rustling in a light hot wind.  She fancied that they sang, and strained her ears to catch the tune.  It looked so cool and green and dark up there; surely the birds, the squirrels, the very tree-toads,-those polished bits of malachite,-must be happy and fond in their storeyed palace.  What a poem might be written about them! but they would not raise their voices above that indefinite murmur, and the straining ears of her soul heard not either.

She sat up and began to write, endeavouring to shake some life into her heroine, but only succeeding in making her express herself in very affected old English, with the air of a marionette.

Then mechanically, almost unconsciously, she began the story again.  At the end of an hour she discovered that she had dressed up Trennahan in velvet and gold, doublet and hose.  She laughed with grim merriment.  Ignorant as she was, she was quick to see the incongruity between modern man in his quintessence and the romantic garments of a buried century.  Also, her hero had addressed his startled friends in this wise: 

“I can’t stand that rat-hole any longer.  I’m going to stay down here with the rest of you, whether I’m hanged for it or not.”

This was undoubtedly what Trennahan would have said; but not the Cavalier, Lord Hastings of Fairfax.  She had a vague prompting that on the whole it was preferable to,-

“Gadsooks, my bold knights, and prithee should a man rot in a rat-ridden cupboard while his friends make merry?  Rather let him be drawn and quartered, then fed to ravens, but live while he may.”

But she dismissed the thought as treason to letters, and proceeded on her mistaken way with the Lady Eleanora Templemere.  Shakspere and Scott were her favourite writers; she felt that she must fumble into the sacred lines of literature by such feeble rays as they cast her.  She liked and admired the great realists whose bones were hardly dust; but they did not inspire her, taught her nothing.