Chapel, a few months before; and peeping
from my sheltered nook, I saw a man clad in monkish garb stoop to drink
from the spring. He sat a while, with his arms clasped around his
knees, and his profile was so perfect I seized my pencil and drew the
outlines; but before I completed it, he suddenly fell upon his knees,
and the intense anguish, remorse, contrition--what not--so changed the
countenance, that while he prayed, I made rapidly a new sketch. Then
the most extraordinary thing happened. He rose, and turning fully
toward me, I saw that one-half of his face was nobly regular,
classically perfect; while the other side was hideously distorted,
deformed. Absolutely he was 'Hyperion and Satyr' combined--with one set
of features between them. I suppose my astonishment caused me to utter
some exclamation, for he glanced up the cliff, saw me, turned and fled.
I shouted and ran, but could not overtake him, and when I reached the
open space, I saw a figure speeding away on a white mustang pony, and
knew from the fluttering of the black skirts that it was the same man.
My sketch shows the right side of his face, the other was drawn down
almost beyond the lineaments of humanity. Beg pardon, madam, but would
you be so good as to tell me whether this freak of nature was
congenital, or the result of some frightful accident?"

Beryl had shut her eyes, and her lips were compressed to stifle the
moan that struggled in her throat. When she spoke, the stranger
detected a change in her voice.

"The person whose countenance was recalled by your sketch, was
afflicted by no physical blemish, when last I saw him."

"His appearance was so singular, that I made sundry inquiries about
him, but only one person seemed ever to have encountered him; and that
was a half-breed Indian driver, belonging to our party. He told me,
'Brother Luke' belonged to a band of monks living somewhere beyond the
mountains; and that he sometimes crossed, searching for stray cattle.
That is the history of my sketch, and since I am indebted to you for
its recovery, I regret for your sake that it is so meagre."

"It was last August that you made the sketch?"

"Last August. And now may I ask, to whom my thanks are due?"

"I am merely an humble member of a sisterhood of working women, and my
name could possess no interest for you. I owe you an apology for
trespassing upon your time, and prying into the mysteries of your
portfolio; but the beauty of your sketch, an