He may have been a robber,
and--if--not---- Did--have you ever fired your revolver since that day
four years ago, when the Red Admiral's son tried to kill you? But I
know you have not." "No," said I, wondering. "It's a fact, I have not. Why?" "And don't you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you the
day when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and his father?" "Yes, I do remember. Well?" "Well, I--I took the cartridges first to St. Gildas chapel and dipped
them in holy water. You must not laugh, Dick," said Lys gently, laying
her cool hands on my lips. "Laugh, my darling!" Overhead the October sky was pale amethyst, and the sunlight burned
like orange flame through the yellow leaves of beech and oak. Gnats
and midges danced and wavered overhead; a spider dropped from a twig
halfway to the ground and hung suspended on the end of his gossamer
thread. "Are you sleepy, dear?" asked Lys, bending over me. "I am--a little; I scarcely slept two hours last night," I answered. "You may sleep, if you wish," said Lys, and touched my eyes caressingly. "Is my head heavy on your knees?" "No, Dick." I was already in a half doze; still I heard the brook babbling under
the beeches and the humming of forest flies overhead. Presently even
these were stilled. The next thing I knew I was sitting bolt upright, my ears ringing with
a scream, and I saw Lys cowering beside me, covering her white face
with both hands. As I sprang to my feet she cried again and clung to my knees. I saw my
dog rush growling into a thicket, then I heard him whimper, and he came
backing out, whining, ears flat, tail down. I stooped and disengaged
Lys's hand. "Don't go, Dick!" she cried. "O God, it's the Black Priest!" In a moment I had leaped across the brook and pushed my way into the
thicket. It was empty. I stared about me; I scanned every tree trunk,
every bush. Suddenly I saw him. He was seated on a fallen log, his head
resting in his hands, his rusty black robe gathered around him. For
a moment my hair stirred under my cap; sweat started on forehead and
cheek-bone; then I recovered my reason, and understood that the man was
human and was probably wounded to death. Ay, to death; for there, at my
feet, lay the wet trail of blood, over leaves and stones, down into the
little hollow, across to the figure in black resting silently under the
trees. I saw that he could not escape even if he had the strength, for before
him, almost at his very feet, lay a deep, shining swamp. As I stepped forward my foot broke a twig. At the sound the figure
started a little, then its head fell forward again. Its face was
masked. Walking up to the man, I bade him tell where he was wounded. Durand and the others broke through the thicket at the same moment and
hurried to my side. "Who are you who hide a masked face in a priest's robe?" said the
gendarme loudly. There was no answer. "See--see the stiff blood all over his robe!" muttered Le Bihan to
Fortin. "He will not speak," said I. "He may be too badly wounded," whispered Le Bihan. "I saw him raise his head," I said; "my wife saw him creep up here." Durand stepped forward and touched the figure. "Speak!" he said. "Speak!" quavered Fortin. Durand waited a moment, then with a sudden upward movement he stripped
off the mask and threw back the man's head. We were looking into the
eye sockets of a skull. Durand stood rigid; the mayor shrieked. The
skeleton burst out from its rotting robes and collapsed on the ground
before us. From between the staring ribs and the grinning teeth spurted
a torrent of black blood, showering the shrinking grasses; then the
thing shuddered, and fell over into the black ooze of the bog. Little
bubbles of iridescent air appeared from the mud; the bones were slowly
engulfed, and, as the last fragments sank out of sight, up from the
depths and along the bank crept a creature, shiny, shivering, quivering
its wings. It was a death's-head moth. *       *       *       *       *

I wish I had time to tell you how Lys outgrew superstitions--for she
never knew the truth about the affair, and she never will know, since
she has promised not to read this book. I wish I might tell you about
the king and his coronation, and how the coronation robe fitted. I wish
that I were able to write how Yvonne and Herbert Stuart rode to a boar
hunt in Quimperlé, and how the hounds raced the quarry right through
the town, overturning three gendarmes, the notary, and an old woman. But I am becoming garrulous, and Lys is calling me to come and hear the
king say that he is sleepy. And his Highness shall not be kept waiting. *       *       *       *       *

  THE KING'S CRADLE SONG. Seal with a seal of gold
      The scroll of a life unrolled;
    Swathe him deep in his purple stole;
    Ashes of diamonds, crystalled coal,
      Drops of gold in each scented fold. Crimson wings of the Little Death,
    Stir his hair with your silken breath;
    Flaming wings of sins to be,
    Splendid pinions of prophecy,
      Smother his eyes with hues and dyes,
  While the white moon spins and the winds arise,
      And the stars drip through the skies. Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Seal his sight and stifle his breath,
    Cover his breast with the gemmed shroud pressed;
    From north to north, from west to west,
      Wave, O wings of the Little Death! Till the white moon reels in the cracking skies,
      And the ghosts of God arise. THE WHITE SHADOW. We are no other than a moving row
  Of magic shadow-shapes, that come and go
    Round with this sun-illumined lantern, held
  In midnight by the master of the show. A moment's halt--a momentary taste
  Of being from the well amid the waste--
    And lo! the phantom caravan has reached
  The nothing it set out from. Oh, make haste! Ah, Love! could you and I with him conspire
  To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
    Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
  Remould it nearer to the heart's desire! FITZGERALD. THE WHITE SHADOW. Listen, then, love, and with your white hand clear
  Your forehead from its cloudy hair. I. "Three great hulking cousins," said she, closing her gray eyes
disdainfully. We accepted the rebuke in astonished silence. Presently she opened her
eyes, and seemed surprised to see us there yet. "O," she said, "if you think I am going to stay here until you make up
your minds----"

"I've made up mine," said Donald. "We will go to the links. You may
come." "I shall not," she announced. "Walter, what do you propose?" Walter looked at his cartridge belt and then at the little
breech-loader standing in a corner of the arbour. "Oh, I know," she said, "but I won't! I won't! I won't!" The uncles and aunts on the piazza turned to look at us; her mother
arose from a steamer-chair and came across the lawn. "Won't what, Sweetheart?" she asked, placing both hands on her
daughter's shoulders. "Mamma, Walter wants me to shoot, and Don wants me to play golf, and
I--won't!" "She doesn't know what she wants," said I.