tle had he been able
to accomplish along the line of his purpose. A dozen times indeed he
might have planted an arrow between the delicately shrugged shoulders of
Master Quinton Edge as he strolled, of a sunshiny morning, along the
Palace Road, surrounded by his little body-guard of flatterers and
political courtiers. But such an act would have stained his honor
without fully satisfying his vengeance; he did not want to strike until
he should know where it would hurt the most.

It had been Ulick always who had stood in the road; Ulick with his
eternal lamentations over the maid Esmay. Together they had searched for
her in every possible quarter. But where was one to look first in this
wilderness of stone? It would have been an obvious procedure to have
kept close watch upon the movements of Quinton Edge, whose complicity
was a matter of reasonable suspicion. But the first attempts at
shadowing him had resulted in nothing, and early in December the _Black
Swan_, with Quinton Edge himself in command, had left her moorings in
the Greater river, bound doubtless on some piratical expedition.

It was an added aggravation of Constans's impatience that Ulick himself
was ordered away at the end of January. He had been drafted to take part
in a raid, and since the route of the proposed foray led far to the
southward he would probably be absent for a considerable time. It would
take a fortnight's hard riding for the band to reach the distant colony
against which the attack had been planned, and fully six weeks would be
required in which to drive the cattle home. Two full months, then, and
as yet only one had passed; the returning raiders would not cross the
High Bridge much before the first day in April.

As the weeks went heavily on, Constans, in spite of his philosophy,
began to fret and chafe. He could put in a part of each day in the
library poring over his books and digging out the ancient wisdom from
the printed page by sheer force of will. But there always came a time
when only physical exertion would have any effect in dispelling the
mental disquietude that possessed him, and then he would throw aside his
books and walk the empty streets for hours.

The weather continued bad, bitter cold alternating with storms of rain
and sleet. Towards the end of January the snow came in earnest: it lay a
foot deep on the level, and the Doomsmen, after their custom, kept
closely within doors. Constans would occasionally note a few fre