his rose. Nay, sit here on the bench
and I"--brightly--"may look over your shoulder ever and anon, to steal
a glimpse of the pretty pictures."

Unquestioningly, he obeyed her, the book, illumined, gleaming in the
sunshine; the letters, red, gold, many-hued, dancing before them. Love
in crimson, the five silver shafts of Cupid, the Tower of Jealousy, a
frowning fortress, the Rose, incentive for endless striving and
endeavor--all floated by on the creamy parchment leaves. So interested
was she in these wondrous pages, executed with such precision and
perfection, with marginal adornment, and many a graceful turn and fancy
in initial letter and tail-piece, she seemed to him for the moment
rather some simple lowly maiden than a proud princess of the realm.

"How much splendor the penman has shown!" she murmured, her breath on
his cheek. "'Tis more beautiful than the 'Life of Saint Agnes.' Is
not that figure well done? A hard, austere old man; Reason, I believe,
in monkish attire."

"Reason, or Duty, ever partakes of the monastery," he retorted with a
short, mirthless laugh.

"Duty; obedience!" she broke in. "Do I not know them? Please turn the
page."

Reaching over, she herself did so, her fingers touching his, her bosom
just brushing his shoulder; and then she flushed, for it was Venus's
self the page revealed, standing on a grassy bank and showing Love the
rose. Around the queen of beauty floated a silver gauze; her hair was
indicated by threads of gold tossed luxuriantly about her; upon the
shoulder of Love rested her hand, encouraging him in his quest. Most
zealously had the monk-artist executed the lovely lady, as though some
heart-dream flowed from the ink on his pen, every line exact, each
feature radiantly shown. Some youthful anchorite, perhaps, was he, and
this the fair temptation that had assailed his fancy; such a vision as
St. Anthony wrestled with in the grievous solitude of his hermit cell.

From the book and the picture, the jester, feeling the princess draw
back impulsively, dared look up, and, looking up, could not look down
from a loveliness surpassing the idealization on vellum of a monkish
dream. From head to foot, the sunlight bathed the princess, glistening
in her hair until it was alive with light. Even when he gazed into her
blue eyes he was conscious of a more flaming glory than lay in the
heavens of their depths; a splendent maze that shed a brightness around
her.

"Oh, Prince