eward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool,
which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped
shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the
fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns
the abyss again absorbs them.

"Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the
rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the
hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a
figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure
of the Fleur de Lys."

"And you know no more?"

"Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been
vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the
straits, and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn
in, and that every soul perished."

A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her
chamber.

From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank
into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers;
she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she
possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by
religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal
routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the
shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells,
notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern
holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own
salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was
the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of
love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest.

Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half
of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him,
she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well,
like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before
God and brought a Peter.

About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she
oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their
summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by
purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that
its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a
mirror, and was indeed called "The mirror pond;" the upper sky, the
branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any on