brating--"I
fulfil my desire--I realise my dream--I grasp and hold a spark of the
Divine." He paused again, his face to the gold of the dawn and in his
eyes the far-off rapture of one who watches some soaring flight of
fancy. Then abruptly, lightly, he resumed his normal, half-quizzing
demeanour. "Doubtless I weary you," he said. "But you mustn't run away
with the idea that I am in love because I feel myself inspired. It may
sound callous to you, but if Miss Columbine were to lose her exquisite
beauty (which heaven forbid!) I should never voluntarily look upon her
again. That I take it, is the test of love, which, we are told, is blind
to all defects."

He ceased to speak, and carelessly, yet with obvious enjoyment, he sent
forth another cloud of smoke into the crystal air of the morning.

He was not looking at Rufus. It was abundantly evident that he had not
realised how near to open violence the young fisherman had been. His
nonchalant explanation was plainly all-sufficing in his own opinion,
and during the very marked silence that followed he displayed no
faintest hint of anxiety or even interest as to the fashion of its
reception.

The boat was rocking lightly on the swell; the sea all around was
flooded with gold. The great jagged outline of the Spear Point looked
like the castle of a dream. The haze of the newly risen sun had touched
with magic all the world. Knight's eyes were half-closed. He had the
look of a man at peace with himself.

And Rufus relaxed. The tension went out of his attitude; the volcanic
fires died down. For half a minute or more he sat absolutely passive.
Then slowly, with massive deliberation, he moved, unshipped the oars,
and bent himself to pull. In another ten seconds the boat was rushing
through the water under the compulsion of his powerful strokes, heading
straight for the boats of the fishing fleet that dotted the bay....

It must have been fully a quarter of an hour later that Knight, having
finished his cigarette, came out of his reverie.

"And so, you see," he remarked in the tone of one pleasantly rounding
off a conversation, "until my picture is painted I remain the slave of
my dream. I wonder if I have succeeded at all in making myself
intelligible."

His eyes opened lazily and met Rufus's sombre gaze; they held a laughing
challenge, the easy challenge of the practised fencer who condescends
to try a bout with ignorance.

Stolidly Rufus met the look. If he realised the