f bacchantes limned
on the wall immediately below the ceiling had begun to move,
traversing the room from right to left in a gay and spectacular
pilgrimage. I did not confide my discovery to Kerner. The artistic
temperament is too high-strung to view such deviations from the
natural laws of the art of kalsomining. I sipped my absinthe drip and
sawed wormwood.

One absinthe drip is not much--but I said again to Kerner, kindly:

"You are a fool." And then, in the vernacular: "Jesse Holmes for
yours."

And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer, as he had always
appeared to my imagination, sitting at a nearby table, and regarding
us with his reddish, fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from
top to toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, the gray clothes of
ancient cut, the executioner's look, and the dusty shoes of one who
had been called from afar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner.
I shuddered to think that I had invoked him from his assiduous
southern duties. I thought of flying, and then I kept my seat,
reflecting that many men had escaped his ministrations when it seemed
that nothing short of an appointment as Ambassador to Spain could
save them from him. I had called my brother Kerner a fool and was in
danger of hell fire. That was nothing; but I would try to save him
from Jesse Holmes.

The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours. He
rested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes
upon Kerner, ignoring me.

"You are a hopeless fool," he said to the artist. "Haven't you had
enough of starvation yet? I offer you one more opportunity. Give up
this girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the
consequences."

The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within a foot of his victim's;
but to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware
of his presence.

"We will be married next week," he muttered absent-mindedly. "With my
studio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out."

"You have decided your own fate," said the Fool-Killer, in a low but
terrible voice. "You may consider yourself as one dead. You have had
your last chance."

"In the moonlight," went on Kerner, softly, "we will sit under the
skylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride
and money."

"On your own head be it," hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp
prickled when I perceived that neither Kerner's eyes nor his ears
took the slig