And the haughty baronet, without a word, turned and left him.
The endless hours wore on--two, three, and four--and still the baronet watched and waited, and looked for the coming of dawn.

Faintly the silver light broke in the Orient, rosy flushed the first red ray.

Sir Jasper mounted to the battlements, still like a man in a dazed dream.
Achmet the Astrologer turned slowly round.

The pale, frosty sunrise had blanched his ever-white face with a livid hue of death.

In one hand he held a folded paper, in the other a pencil.