lame. He had
not the tenacity of his forefathers; and so, though he might kill his
brother, he would not care to torment him during long years. Hate
palled on him as quickly as love. He was content to leave the lives of
Jean Avenel and of Olive on the knees of the gods.

There was no pity, no tenderness in him to be stirred by the
remembrance of blue eyes dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of
the small thing that had lain in a huddled heap at his feet, and he
was not afraid of any consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea of
jealousy covers a multitude of sins, and he was sure that a jury would
acquit him if he were charged with murder.

How many hundred years had passed since Pilate had called for water to
wash his hands! Filippo--reminded in some way of the Roman
governor--felt that same need. His hands were not clean--there was
dust on them--and it seemed that the one thing that really might clog
his thoughts and tarnish them later on was the dust on a frilled
cushion.

CHAPTER X

To some men their world is most precious when their arms may compass
it. These are the great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it mattered
little whether this grey hour of rain and silence preluded life or
death. Presently they would come to the edge of the stream called
Lethe, and then he, making a cup of his hands, would give the woman he
loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness, and all remembrance of
loneliness and tears, and of the pain that ached now in his side and
in her shot breast would pass away.

He looked down from a great height and saw:

"_the curled moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf;_"

and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped in a web of clouds, hung by
a slender thread of some huge spider's spinning. There was a dark mark
upon it that spread and reddened until it seemed to be a stain of
blood on a woman's breast. She had been pale, but the colour had come
again when he had kissed her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red
that oozed between his fingers?

In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts fluttered and passed like
white moths. Was that the roar of voices? The hall was full and they
wanted him, but he could not play again. Love was best. He would stay
in the garden with Olive.

What were they asking for? A nocturne--yes; it was getting dark, and
the sea was rising--that was the sound of the sea.

* * *