th that stretched like a clean
white ribbon from the little group of pastel-colored houses by the
water. There was not a breath of wind, not a rustle in the gray-green
olive trees that shimmered silver in the sunlight. Little lizards,
sunning themselves on warm flat stones, watched him with brilliant eyes,
and darted away to safety as he moved. The shadows of the cypress trees
barred the white path like rungs of a ladder. And Blagden, drinking deep
of the beauty of it all, climbed upward.

When he opened the low door of the little chapel the cold of the
darkness within was as another barrier. He stepped inside, his footsteps
echoing heavily through the shadows, though he walked on tiptoe. After
the brilliant sunlight outside he could make out but little of the
interior at first. At the far end four candles were burning, and he made
his way toward them across the worn floor.

In a cheap, tarnished frame of gilt, above the four flickering pencils
of light, hung a picture of the Virgin. Blagden stared at it in
amazement. It had evidently been painted by a master hand. Blagden
was no artist; but the face told him that. It was drawn with wonderful
appreciation of the woman's sweetness. Perhaps the eyes were what was
most wonderful,--pitiful, trusting, a little sad perhaps.

The life-sized figure, draped in smoke-colored blue, blended softly
with the dusky shadows, and the flickering candlelight lent a witchery
to blurred outlines that half deceived him,--at moments the picture
seemed alive. She was smiling a little wistful smile.

And the canvas over the heart of the Virgin was cut in a long, clean
stroke--and opened in a disfiguring gash. Beneath it, on a little stand,
lay a slim-bladed, vicious knife, covered with dust.

Blagden wonderingly stooped to pick it up--and a voice spoke out of the
darkness behind him.

"I would not touch it, Signor," it said, and Blagden wheeled guiltily.

A man was standing in the shadow, almost at his elbow.

He was old, the oldest man Blagden had ever seen, and he wore the long
brown gown of a monk. His face was like a withered leaf, lined and
yellow, and his hair was silver white.

Only the small, saurian eyes held Blagden with their strange brilliance.
The rest of his face was like a death mask.

"Why not?" said Blagden.

The monk stepped forward into the dim light, crossing himself as he
passed the picture. He looked hesitatingly at the younger man before
him, searching his fa