the hills. We have tunnelled through his mountain chamber.
We have shivered his beard with our pick. We have driven the gods from
Olympus. No wanderer through the moonlit groves now fears or hopes the
sweet, death-giving gleam of Aphrodite's face. Thor's hammer echoes not
among the peaks--'tis but the thunder of the excursion train. We have
swept the woods of the fairies. We have filtered the sea of its nymphs.
Even the ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research
Society.

Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted. They were
dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and sighing.
Let them go.

And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would. The old
gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who was
murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can see from
my window as I write--stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was
riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called
Tor's tomb. Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love its steep
banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, with its
twenty feet of stagnant water. Why does he haunt the forest paths at
night, as they tell me he does, frightening the children out of their
wits, blanching the faces and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads
and lasses, slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does
he not come up here and talk to me? He should have my easy-chair and
welcome, would he only be cheerful and companionable.

What brave tales could he not tell me. He fought in the first Crusade,
heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey face to face,
stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps. Better than a whole
library of historical novels would an evening's chat be with such a
ghost. What has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has
he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has spoken to the
strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of Jupiter. What has he
learned of the great secret? Has he found the truth? or is he, even as
I, a wanderer still seeking the unknown?

You, poor, pale, grey nun--they tell me that of midnights one may see
your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the clash of
sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath.

It was very sad, I quite understand, my dear lady. Your lovers both were
killed, and you retired to a convent. Believe me