her sentence, for the door opened, and through it
came the sage.

"Quarrelling," he said in a tone of reproof. "What about? Let me guess,"
and he passed his hand over his shadowed brow. "Ah! I see, there is a
finger in it, a finger of fate? No, not that," and, moved by a fresh
inspiration, he grasped Meg's hand, and added, "Now I have it. Bring it
back, friend Adrian, bring it back; a dead finger is most unlucky to all
save its owner. As a favour to me."

"Very well," said Adrian.

"My gifts grow," mused the master. "I have a vision of this honest hand
and of a great sword--but, there, it is not worth while, too small a
matter. Leave us, mother. It shall be returned, my word on it. Yes, gold
ring and all. And now, young friend, let us talk. You have the philtre?
Well, I can promise you that it is a good one, it would almost bring
Galatea from her marble. Pygmalion must have known that secret. But tell
me something of your life, your daily thoughts and daily deeds, for when
I give my friendship I love to live in the life of my friends."

Thus encouraged, Adrian told him a great deal, so much, indeed, that the
Senor Ramiro, nodding in the shadow of his hood, began to wonder whether
the spy behind the cupboard door, expert as he was, could possibly make
his pen keep pace with these outpourings. Oh! it was a dreary task,
but he kept to it, and by putting in a sentence here and there artfully
turned the conversation to matters of faith.

"No need to fence with me," he said presently. "I know how you have been
brought up, how through no fault of your own you have wandered out
of the warm bosom of the true Church to sit at the clay feet of the
conventicle. You doubt it? Well, let me look again, let me look. Yes,
only last week you were seated in a whitewashed room overhanging the
market-place. I see it all--an ugly little man with a harsh voice is
preaching, preaching what I think blasphemy. Baskets--baskets? What have
baskets to do with him?"

"I believe he used to make them," interrupted Adrian, taking the bait.

"That may be it, or perhaps he will be buried in one; at any rate he
is strangely mixed up with baskets. Well, there are others with you, a
middle-aged, heavy-faced man, is he not Dirk van Goorl, your stepfather?
And--wait--a young fellow with rather a pleasant face, also a relation.
I see his name, but I can't spell it. F--F--o--i, faith in the French
tongue, odd name for a heretic."

"F-o-y--Foy," interru