unshine reveals them.

It was the Palace of Sleep, lost in the mountain forests, but here
there was no hope coming with the springing footsteps of a blithe
young prince. The sleepers in this palace could not be waked by a
wish, or a magic kiss, for they were ghosts, ghosts everywhere--in the
great kitchen, with all its huge polished utensils ready for the meal
which would never be cooked, and its neat plain dishes on shelved
trays, waiting to be carried to the _grilles_ of the _solitaires_; in
the Brothers' refectory where the egg-cups were ranged on long, narrow
tables, for the meal never to be eaten, where the chair of the Reader
was waiting to receive him; in the Fathers' refectory next door; in
the dusky corridors, their ends lost in shadow, where only the sad
echoes and the running water of the unseen spring were awake; in the
chapels; in the cemetery with its old carved stones and humbler wooden
crosses; and most of all in the wonderful cells (which were not cells,
but mansions), and in their high-walled gardens, the most private of
all imaginable spots on earth.

Wandering on and on, alone now, I felt myself the saddest man in a
twilight world. Why, I could not have put into words. Had the
brotherhood still peopled the monastery, I should have yearned to join
them, partly because I was sad, and partly because the so-called cells
were the most charming dwelling-places I had seen. Each comprised a
two-storied house in miniature, and each had its garden, shut
irrevocably away from sight or sound of any other. Into one of these
solitary abodes I went alone, and closed the door upon myself and the
ghosts. In fancy I was one of the order, in retreat for a week, my
only means of communication with the outer world of the monastery
(save for midnight prayers in the dim chapel) a little _grille_. There
was my workshop, where I carved wood; there the narrow staircase
leading steeply up to my wainscoted bedroom, my study, and my oratory,
with windows looking down into the leafy square of garden, planted by
my own hands. Standing at one of those windows, I knew the anguish of
parting and loss which had torn the heart of the last occupant, before
he walked out of the monastery between double lines of Chasseurs
Alpins.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIX

The Fairy Prince's Ring

"Rub the ring, and the Genius will appear."
--_Arabian Nights_.

Down, down a winding and beautiful road