usand-and-first right
before him, yawning wide open, which he does not see--his Blind Peril!"

"And what, High-Councillor Dessauer, is my blind peril?"

"I will tell you, Hugo," he said; "not that you will believe or alter a
hair. A man may do many things in this world, but one thing he cannot do.
He cannot kiss the fingers of a Princess--dainty fingers, too, separating
finger from finger--and kiss also the Princess's maid of honor on the
mouth. The combination is certainly entertaining, but like the Friar's
powder it is somewhat explosive."

"And how," asked I, "may you know all that ?"

The old man nodded his head sagely.

"Neither by ink-pool nor yet by scrying! All the same, I know. Moreover,
your peril is not a blind peril only, but a blind man's peril. Ye must
choose, and that quickly, little son--fingers or lips."

I heard the rustle of a skirt down the stair. It was the light, springing
tread of the one I loved first and best, last and only.

"By the twelve gods, lips!" cried I, and made for the door.

And I heard the chuckling laughter of High-Chancellor Dessauer behind me
as I followed Helene down the stairs. It sounded like the decanting of
mellow wine, long hidden in darksome cellars, and now, in the flower of
its age, bringing to the light the smiling of ancient vineyards and the
shining of forgotten suns.

I found Helene arrived before me in the rose-garden. She did not turn
round as I came, though she heard me well enough. Instead she walked on,
plucking at a marguerite.

"Loves me--loves me _not_!" she said, bearing upon the last word with
triumphant accent, as she continued to dismantle the poor flower.

And flashing round upon me with the solitary petal in her hand, she
presented it with a low bow, in elfish mockery of the manner of the court
exquisite.

"Ah, true flower!" she said, apostrophizing the bare stalk, "a flower
cannot lie. It has not a glozing tongue. It cannot change back and forth.
The sun shines. It turns towards the sun. The sun leaves the skies. It
shuts itself up and waits his return. Ah,-true flower, dear flower, how
unlike a man you are!"

"Helene," said I, "you have learned conceits from the catch-books. You
quarrel by rote. Were I as eager to answer me, I might say: 'Ah, false
flower, you grow out of the foulness underneath. You give your fragrance
to all without discretion--a common lover, prodigal of favors, fit only
to be torn to shreds by pretty, spiteful finger