Then she talked long and earnestly with the cook concerning the morrow's programme, and at nine o'clock she climbed to her room.
Barbara, however, could not sleep; so, after an hour or two had passed, she rose, lit a candle, threw on a wrap, and descended the broad staircase, intent upon a queer and enthralling Spanish book--the story of a mad knight and his comic, matter-of-fact attendant, which was a favourite of her father's.
The book was wont to stand in a corner of the library close to his hand as he sat writing by the window, and, opening the door, Barbara crossed the floor with her hand outstretched to take it.

So familiar was she with the mad knight's position on the shelves that she carried no light.
Her hand was within a yard of the sheepskin cover when she leaped back with frozen blood, for there, a foot from her, in her father's chair, was the figure of a man.

Instantly she remembered the open window.

A breath from the roses floated in and fanned her face; until her dying day Barbara had but to be conscious of the scent of roses to see again that darkened room, to feel again that tightening of the heart.

She could neither scream nor move.
The tension was snapped by the man himself, who suddenly awoke and stretched his arms, and, in doing so, smote Barbara on the shoulder.