being the scholar among us should have it. See, the
grandmother's name is written within."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was a bright May morning when Philip, attended by only two lackeys
as became a poor man, rode over the bridge of Canche with eyes turned
southward. In the green singing world the pall lifted from his spirits.
The earth which God had made was assuredly bigger and better than man's
philosophies. "It would appear," he told himself, "that like the younger
son in the tale, I am setting out to look for fortune."

At an inn in the city of Orleans he examined his brother's gift. It was
a volume of careful manuscript, entitled Imago Mundi, and bearing the
name of one Pierre d'Ailly, who had been Bishop of Cambray when
the Countess Catherine was a child. He opened it and read of many
marvels--how that the world was round, as Pythagoras held, so that if
a man travelled west he would come in time to Asia where the sun rose.
Philip brooded over the queer pages, letting his fancy run free, for
he had been so wrapped up in the mysteries of man's soul that he had
forgotten the mysteries of the earth which is that soul's place of
pilgrimage. He read of cities with silver walls and golden towers
waiting on the discoverer, and of a river on whose banks "virescit sylva
vitae." And at that phrase he fell to dreaming of his childhood, and a
pleasant unrest stirred in his heart. "Aimery has given me a precious
viaticum," he said.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He travelled by slow stages into Italy, for he had no cause for haste.
At Pavia he wandered listlessly among the lecture halls. What had once
seemed to him the fine gold of eloquence was now only leaden rhetoric.
In his lodging at Florence he handled once again his treasures--his
books from Ficino's press; his manuscripts, some from Byzantium yellow
with age, some on clean white vellum new copied by his order; his busts
and gems and intaglios. What had become of that fervour with which he
had been used to gaze on them? What of that delicious world into which,
with drawn curtains and a clear lamp, he could retire at will? The
brightness had died in the air.

He found his friends very full of quarrels. There was a mighty feud
between two of them on the respective merits of Cicero and Quintilian
as lawgivers in grammar, and the air was thick with libels. Another pair
wrangled in public over the pre-eminence of Scipio and Julius Caesar