is last moment to overpower all her
foregone conclusions, and disconcert her in spite of herself--
"I am not a nun yet, so it cannot be so very wrong in me; and
then there is Monsieur Horace----" and with the thought of him
all Madelon's courage returned. The rush of associations
linking his name with a hundred aspirations, hopes, plans,
which had become a habit of mind with her, revived in full
force, and with these came a sudden realization of the
imminent nature of the present opportunity, which, if lost,
might never return.

The next moment she had dropped her bundle on the flower-bed
below, and was scrambling out of the low window, clinging to
the window-sill, catching hold of tough stems and pliant
branches, crashing down through twigs, and leaves, and
flowers, on to the ground beneath. Could these convent-trained
vines and roses have known what daring little culprit was
amongst them, would they have cried aloud for aid, I wonder,
stretching out thorny sprays, and twining tendrils, to catch
and detain her prisoner?--or would they not rather, in their
sweet liberty of air, and dew, and sunshine, have done their
best to help forward this poor little captive in her flight,
aiding her in her descent, and shielding her from all prying
eyes with their leafy branches, their interlacing sprays of
red buds, and soft, faint flowers?

But they paid no heed one way or the other, and Madelon, with
not a few scratches on her hands, and more that one rent in
her frock, was safely on the ground. It was all the work of a
moment; in another she had caught up her bundle, and was
darting over the lawn, across the twilit garden, as if the
whole sisterhood were in pursuit. Hardly knowing how she did
it, she clambered up the wall, through the big westeria,
reached the top, and slipping, sliding, found herself in the
pathway running round the outside, scratched, bruised, and
breathless, but without the walls, and so far free, at any
rate. Months afterwards she found some withered lilac-blossoms
lodged amongst the ribbons of her hat; how they recalled to
her the moment of that desperate rush and clamber, the faint,
dewy scent of the flowers, which she noticed even then, the
rustle and crash of the branches, which startled her as with
the sound of pursuing footsteps.

Once outside, she paused for a moment to take breath, and be
certain that no one was following her. All was quiet, and in
the stillness she could hear, as once before