violent recoil Alexander shrank into
the old caves of himself. All, the magic web of color and fragrance
dwindled, came to be a willow basket filled with White Farm flowers
placed upon the kirkyard steps.

Ian Rullock had stolen her--Ian, not Alexander, had been her lover,
kissed her, clasped her, there in the glen! Ian, the Judas of
friendship--thief of a comrade's bliss--cheat, murderer, mocker, and
injurer!

The wave of oneness fled.

Glenfernie, looking like the old laird his father, his cloak wrapped
around him, feeling the December air, left the river steps, wandered
away through Paris.

But when he was alone with the night he tried to recover the wave. It
had been so wonderful. Even the faint, faint echo, the ghostly
afterglow, were exquisite; were worth more than anything he yet had
owned. He tried to recover the earlier part of the wave, separating it
from the later flood that had seemed critical of righteous wrath, just
punishment. But it would not come back on those terms.... But yet he
wanted it, wanted it, longed for it even while he warred against it.

CHAPTER XXVII

That was one December. The year made twelve steps and here was
December again. With it came to Ian a proffer from the nobleman of the
coach across the Seine. Some ancient business, whether of soul or
sense, carried him to Rome. Monsieur Ian Rullock--said to be for the
moment banished from a certain paradise--might find it in his interest
to come with him--say as traveling companion. Ian found it so.
Monseigneur was starting at once. Good! let us start.

Ian despatched his servant to the lodging known to be occupied by the
laird of Glenfernie. The man had a note to deliver. Alexander took it
and read:

GLENFERNIE,--I am quitting Paris with the Duc
de ----, for Rome.--IAN RULLOCK.

The man gone, Alexander put fire to the missive and burned it, after
which he walked up and down, up and down the wide, bare room. When
some time had passed he came back to chair and table, inkwell and pen,
and a half-written letter. The quill drove on:

... None could do better by the estate than you--not I nor
any other. So I beg of you to stay, dear Strickland, who
have stayed by us so long!

There followed a page of business detail--inquiries--expressed
wishes. Glenfernie paused. Before him, propped against a volume of old
lore, stood a small picture;--Orestes asleep in the grove of the
Furies. He sat leaning back i