ouch of that beautiful faith which is the heritage of the born
adventurer. He was content to wait for something to turn up. He threw
away the end of his cigar and walked slowly up and down the great
vaulted room. The ceiling was of extraordinary height, and the wooden
panels which covered the walls were black with age and beautifully
carved. He paused before one of them to examine the design, and
passed his fingers lightly over the figure of a priest who knelt by
the side of a wounded man in armour. It was a rugged but wonderful
representation. Suddenly he started back as though he had been shot.
The priest was being split down the middle before his eyes.

He stood rigid. Even his nerves were scarcely proof against this sort
of thing. The head of the wounded knight had parted from his body, and
the legs of the priest were every moment drawing further apart. He
approached the panel gingerly. It was not fancy. There was a long,
thin crack from the floor to the tapestry border, which stood about
six feet high. Whilst he watched, it widened. He slipped his hand into
his pocket and drew out his revolver.

From one inch to two--to half a foot, and then wide open, the panel
slid back. Brand uttered a soft cry of amazement. A woman, dark,
slender, and beautiful, stood upon the threshold of what seemed to be
a passage, herself almost as motionless as a painted figure. Her eyes
met his with a challenging light, her pose was imperious. Diamonds
flashed from her neck and bosom, and her hair was coiled upon her head
coronet-like, after the manner of the women of Theos. Her black gown
was cut in a manner unknown to western dressmakers--to Brand she
seemed like a wonderful Italian picture of the middle ages stepped
bodily from its frame. He lowered his revolver, and took a quick step
backward. Then to his surprise, she spoke to him in English,
haltingly, but with perfect distinctness.

"Lock the door."

The sound of his native language made a new man of Brand. His senses
were no longer dazed.

"It is--already locked," he answered.

She took a step forward, and before he could divine her purpose sank
gently on one knee in a wonderful courtesy. He took the slim white
hand, and bowed low over it.

"You are Ughtred of Tyrnaus?" she said, eagerly. "Is it not so?"

He laughed quietly.

"It is the first time," he said, "that I have been asked the question.
Personation seems to come natural to me."

She looked at him intently, an