o have struck wide some window that had
been shuttered close before. The woman stood there in the glare. She did
not refuse to be drawn back to her place on the sofa, but she looked
round first to see if the others had heard and how they took it. A
glimpse of Mrs. Freddy's gown showed her out of earshot on the balcony.

'I've got something here really rather wonderful,' Lord Borrodaile went
on, with that infrequent kindling of enthusiasm. He had taken one of the
unmounted photographs from between its two bits of cardboard and was
holding it up before his eyeglass. 'Yes, he's an extraordinary
beggar!'--which remark in the ears of those who knew his lordship,
advertized his admiration of either some man of genius or 'Uebermensch'
of sorts. Before he shared the picture with his companion he told her of
what was not then so widely known--details of that most thrilling moment
perhaps in all the romance of archaeology--where the excavators of
Knossos came upon the first authentic picture of a man belonging to that
mysterious and forgotten race that had raised up a civilization in some
things rivalling the Greek--a race that had watched Minoan power wane
and die, and all but the dimmest legend of it vanish, before the
builders of Argos and Mycenae began laying their foundation stones.
Borrodaile, with an accent that for him was almost emotion, emphasized
the strangeness to the scholar of having to abandon the old idea of the
Greek being the sole flower of Mediterranean civilization. For here was
this wonderful island folk--a people standing between and bridging East
and West--these Cretan men and women who, though they show us their
faces, their delicate art and their stupendous palaces, have held no
parley with the sons of men, some say for three and thirty centuries.
'But wait! They'll tell us tales before those fellows have done! I
wouldn't mind hearing what this beggar has to say for himself!' At last
he shared the picture. They agreed that he was a beggar to be reckoned
with--this proud athlete coming back to the world of men after his long
sleep, not blinded by the new day, not primitive, apologetic, but
meeting us with a high imperial mien, daring and beautiful.

'What do you suppose he is carrying in that vase?' Vida asked; 'or is
that some trophy?'

'No, no, it's the long drinking cup--to the expert eye that is added
evidence of his high degree of civilization. But _think_, you know, a
man like that walking the eart