ever riveted in Vulcan's
forge. Next, with perhaps a significance of symbolism, the shirt of
Nessus tortured him to madness with its scorching fires till the huge
limbs writhed and the broad, kindly face was all a-sweat with agony,
but--and now it was the door again--the benediction of peace crowned
the end. The labours, the sorrows, the fiery trials were behind the
back for ever, the faults and failures were forgiven or atoned for;
after the stress of toil, the weariness of struggle, came the
blessedness of rest; after humanity, divinity and the imperishable
glory of high Olympus. Crude in its art, angular in its execution,
there still was something of the soul of the worker stitched with the
canvas. To Stephen La Mothe, touched at times by a poet's
comprehension, it seemed not altogether a myth,--a type, perhaps; only,
being very human, he hungered with a bitter hunger for the crowning of
the peace and the divinity of love while life was life. It requires a
robust faith to believe that Olympus can bring anything better than the
best of earth.

A carved oak bench, black with age, stood beneath the centre of the
three narrow windows piercing the outer wall; a four-branched copper
lamp gave light from the polished table in the middle of the room; here
and there, flanking the oaken bench, at the ends of the room, and at
either side of the wide fireplace, were chairs and stools. A few
wolfskin rugs dotted the floor. Villon and Saxe had not yet arrived.

"Mademoiselle begs that she may be excused to-night; she is very tired."

"But she cannot be excused," began Commines, when La Mothe intervened.

"Say that Monsieur La Mothe very greatly regrets she should be
disturbed when so weary, but as it is of importance to Monseigneur he
trusts she will excuse Monsieur d'Argenton's importunity."

"I told you how it would be," said Commines as the servant left the
room, "you might as well have given your name first as last."

But La Mothe shook his head. "There is a difference, and she will
understand." Then the restraint he had put upon himself with so much
difficulty snapped for a moment: "Uncle, for God's sake, be gentle with
her."

"I will be all I dare, but I trust neither Saxe nor Villon," and as he
spoke the two entered the room.

In spite of a strong effort at self-control the inn-keeper was visibly
ill at ease, while Villon, on his part, was complacently, almost
offensively, cheerful. In a characteristic Pu