h his, and there were times when in his
torture he longed for courage to tell her all, and put an end with his
own hand to a happiness which was to him the bitterest of delusions.
But he dared not; he had had such marvellous escapes already that he
clung to the hope that some miracle might save him yet.

And this was Mark's condition on the morning when this chapter finds
him. There is a certain retreat which the town would seem to have
provided for the express benefit of lovers--a rustic arbour on a
little mount near the railway station overlooking the Rhine Fall. The
surly, red-bearded signalman who watched over the striped barrier at
the level crossing by the tunnel had understood the case from the
first, and (not altogether from disinterested motives, perhaps) would
hasten to the station as soon as he saw the young couple crossing the
bridge and fetch the key of the little wooden gate which kept off all
unlicensed intruders.

It was on this mount that Mark stood now with Mabel by his side,
looking down on the scene below. Spring had only just set in, and the
stunted acacia trees along the road to the bridge were still bare, and
had the appearance of distorted candelabra; the poplars showed only
the mistiest green as yet, the elms were leafless, and the
horse-chestnuts had not unfolded a single one of their crumpled claws.
But the day was warm and bright, the sky a faint blue, with a few
pinkish-white clouds shaded with dove colour near the horizon, pigeons
were fluttering round the lichened piers of the old bridge, which cast
a broad band of purple on the bright green water, and the cuckoo was
calling incessantly from the distant woods. Opposite were the tall
houses, tinted in faint pink and grey and cream colour, with their
crazy wooden balconies overhanging the rocks, and above the
high-pitched brown roofs rose the church and the square tree-crowned
ruin, behind which was a background of pine-covered hills, where the
snow still lay amongst the trunks in a silver graining on the dark red
soil. Such life as the little place could boast was in full stir;
every now and then an ox-cart or a little hooded gig would pass along
the bridge, and townsmen in brown straw hats would meet half-way with
elaborate salutations and linger long to gossip, and bare-headed girls
with long plaited pigtails present their baskets and bundles to be
peered into or prodded suspiciously by the customs officer stationed
at the Baden frontie