er eyes widened and
darkened with that strange look as though she saw into another and
vaster world. "'I am Pallas Athene and I know the thoughts of all men's
hearts, and discern their manhood or their baseness. And from the souls
of clay I turn away; and they are blest, but not by me. They fatten at
ease like sheep in the pasture and eat what they did not sow, like oxen
in the stall. They grow and spread like the gourd along the ground, but
like the gourd they give no shade to the traveler and when they are ripe
death gathers them, and they go down unloved into hell, and their name
vanishes out of the land.'"

She paused a second and John Derringham was astonished at himself
because he was conscious of experiencing a thrill of deep interest.

"Yes?" he said--and her voice went on:

"'But to the souls of fire I give more fire and to those who are manful
I give a might more than man's. These are the heroes, the sons of the
Immortals who are blest but not like the souls of clay, for I drive them
forth by strange paths, Perseus, that they may fight the Titans and
monsters, the enemies of gods and men. Through doubt and need and danger
and battle I drive them, and some of them are slain in the flower of
youth, no man knows when or where, and some of them win noble names and
a fair and green old age--but what will be their latter end, I know not,
and none, save Zeus, the father of gods and men--Tell me, now, Perseus,
which of these two sorts of men seem to you more blest?'"

It was as if she asked him a personal question and unconsciously he
answered:

"I should reply as Perseus did. Tell me his words."

"'Better to die in the flower of youth on the chance of winning a noble
name than to live at ease like the sheep and die unloved and
unrenowned.'"

He bent nearer to her and answered softly: "They are indeed fine words,"
and there was no mockery whatever in his eyes as he looked at her--and
took in every detail of her pure childish face. "You wonderful, strange
little girl--soon I too am going like Perseus to fight the Gorgons, and
I shall remember this night and what you have said."

But at that moment Mr. Miller's high, cackling laugh was heard in an
explosion of mirth. Mr. Carlyon had made some delightfully obvious joke
for his delectation and amidst a smiling company Miss La Sarthe rose
with dignity to leave the gentlemen alone with their wine.

CHAPTER VIII

Next morning, John Derringham sat at a lat