on Aloysius haunted
him strangely, though his common sense sharply rejected the fantastic
notions to which they had given rise. She,--Morgana Royal,--was "not
capable" of love, the priest had implied,--and yet, at times--only at
times,--she seemed eminently lovable. At times,--again, only at
times--he was conscious of a sweeping passion of admiration for her
that well-nigh robbed him of his self-control. But a strong sense of
honour held him in check--he never forgot that he was her paid employe,
and that her wealth was so enormous that any man presuming too
personally upon her indulgence could hardly be exonerated from ulterior
sordid aims. And while he mused, somewhat vexedly, on all the
circumstances of his position, the light widened in the heavens,
showing the very faintest flush of rose in the east as an indication of
the coming sun. He lifted his eyes....

"At last!" he exclaimed, with relief, as he saw a small gliding shadow
among shadows approaching him,--he figure of Morgana so wrapped in a
grey cloak and hood as to almost seem part of the slowly dispersing
mists of the morning. She pushed back the hood as she came near,
showing a small eager white face in which the eyes glittered with an
almost unearthly brightness.

"I have slept till now,"--she said--"Imagine!--all night through
without waking! So lazy of me!--but the long rest has done me good and
I'm ready for anything! Are you? You look very solemn and morose!--like
a warrior in bronze! Anything gone wrong?"

"Not that I am aware of"--he replied--"The men are finishing some small
detail of ornament. I have only looked in to tell them you are coming."

"And are they pleased?"

"Madama, they are not of a class to be either pleased or
displeased"--he said--"They are instructed to perform certain work, and
they perform it. In all that they have been doing for you, according to
your orders, I truly think they are more curious than interested."

A streak of rose and silver flared through the sky flushing the pallor
of Morgana's face as she lifted it towards him, smiling.

"Quite natural!" she said--"No man is ever 'interested' in woman's
work, but he is always 'curious.' Woman is a many-cornered maze--and
man is always peeping round one corner or another in the hope to
discover her--but he never does!"

Rivardi gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

"Never?" he queried.

"Never!" she affirmed, emphatically--"Don't be sarcastic, amico!--even
in this