ough fields, by a path which led him to the back of the
cottage, where its sitting-room window opened on the garden and the
view. As he approached the house, he saw that the sitting-room blinds
had not been drawn, and some of the windows were still open. The whole
room was brilliantly lit by fire and lamp. Otto was there alone, sitting
at the piano, with his back to the approaching spectator and the moonlit
night outside. He was playing something with his left hand; Falloden
could see him plainly. Suddenly, he saw the boy's figure collapse. He
was still sitting, but his face was buried in his arm which was lying on
the piano; and through the open window, Falloden heard a sound which,
muffled as it was, produced upon him a strange and horrible impression.
It was a low cry, or groan--the voice of despair itself.

Falloden stood motionless. All he knew was that he would have given
anything in the world to recall the past; to undo the events of that
June evening in the Marmion quadrangle.

Then, before Otto could discover his presence, he went noiselessly round
the corner of the house, and entered it by the front door. In the hall,
he called loudly to the ex-scout, as he went upstairs, so that Radowitz
might know he had come back. When he returned, Radowitz was sitting over
the fire with sheets of scribbled music-paper on a small table before
him. His eyes shone, his cheeks were feverishly bright. He turned with
forced gaiety at the sight of Falloden--

"Well, did you meet them on the road?"

"Lady Constance, and her friend? Yes. I had a few words with them. How
are you now? What did the doctor say to you?"

"What on earth does it matter!" said Radowitz impatiently. "He is just a
fool--a young one--the worst sort--I can put up with the old ones. I
know my own case a great deal better than he does."

"Does he want you to stop working?" Falloden stood on the hearth,
looking down on the huddled figure in the chair; himself broad and tall
and curly-haired, like the divine Odysseus, when Athene had breathed
ambrosial youth upon him. But he was pale, and his eyes frowned
perpetually under his splendid brows.

"Some nonsense of that sort!" said Radowitz. "Don't let's talk about
it."

They went into dinner, and Radowitz sent for champagne.

"That's the only sensible thing the idiot said--that I might have that
stuff whenever I liked."

His spirits rose with the wine; and presently Falloden could have
thought what he had