and thou didst kill, and those we love die by
our own hands. But no, I lie; I did not love thee, thou wert so ugly and
wild and cruel. Poor boy! Thou wast a fool, and thou wast a murderer.
Thou wouldst have slain my prince, and so I slew thee--I slew thee."

He rocked to and fro in abject sorrow, and cried again: "Hast thou no
one in all the world to mourn thee, save him who killed thee? Is there
no one to wish thee speed to the Ancient House? Art thou tossed away
like an old shoe, and no one to say, The Shoemaker that made thee must
see to it if thou wast ill-shapen, and walked crookedly, and did evil
things? Ah, is there no one to mourn thee, save him that killed thee?"

He leaned back, and cried out into the high hills like a remorseful,
tortured soul.

Valmond, no longer able to watch this grief in silence, stepped quickly
forward. The dogs, seeing him, barked, and then were still; and the
dwarf looked up as he heard footsteps.

"Another has come to mourn him, Parpon," said Valmond.

A look of bewilderment and joy swam into Parpon's eyes. Then he gave
a laugh of singular wildness, his face twitched, tears rushed down his
cheeks, and he threw himself at Valmond's feet, and clasped his knees,
crying:

"Ah-ah, my prince, great brother, thou hast come also! Ah, thou didst
know the way up the long hill Thou hast come to the burial of a fool.
But he had a mother--yes, yes, a mother! All fools have mothers, and
they should be buried well. Come, ah, come, and speak softly the Act of
Contrition, and I will cover him up."

He went to throw in the earth, but Valmond pushed him aside gently.

"No, no," he said, "this is for me." And he began filling the grave.

When they left the place of burial, the fire was burning low, for they
had talked long. At the foot of the hills they looked back. Day was
beginning to break over Dalgrothe Mountain.

CHAPTER X

When, next day, in the bright sunlight, the Little Chemist, the Cure,
and others, opened the door of the shed, taking off their hats in the
presence of the Master Workman, they saw that his seat was empty. The
dead Caliban was gone--who should say how, or where? The lock was still
on the doors, the walls were intact, there was no window for entrance or
escape. He had vanished as weirdly as he came.

All day the people sought the place, viewing with awe and superstition
the shed of death, and the spot in the smithy where, it was said,
Valmond had killed the gia