So much for the frescoes.  A thin coat of plaster had been laid over them to receive the second series, which consisted of the most disgusting and fantastic images, traced in black.  One of these drawings represented Satan himself—­an erect figure, with hairy paws clasped in a supplicating posture, thick black horns, and eyes which (for additional horror) the artist had painted red and edged with a circle of white.  At his feet crawled the hindmost limb of a peculiarly loathsome monster with claws stuck in the soil.  Close by a nun was figured, sitting in a pensive attitude, her cheek resting on the back of her hand, her elbow supported by a hideous dwarf, and at some distance a small house, or prison, with barred windows and a small doorway crossed with heavy bolts.

As I said, this upper series had been but partially scraped away, and as my guest and I stood at a little distance, I leave you to imagine, if you can, the incongruous tableau; the Prince of Darkness almost touching the mourners beside the cross; the sorrowful nun and grinning dwarf side by side with a ship in full sail, which again seemed to be forcing her way into a square and forbidding prison, etc.

Mr. Laquedem conned all this for some while in silence, holding his chin with finger and thumb.

“And it was here you discovered the plaque?” he asked at length.

I pointed to the exact spot.

“H’m!” he mused, “and that ship must be Greek or Levantine by its rig.  Compare the crowns on her masts, too, with that on the plaque . . .”  He stepped to the wall and peered into the frescoes.  “Now this hand and arm—­”

“They belong to me,” said a voice immediately behind me, and turning, I saw that the poor girl had followed us into the church.

The young Jew had turned also.  “What do you mean by that?” he asked sharply.

“She means nothing,” I began, and made as if to tap my forehead significantly.

“Yes, I do mean something,” she persisted.  “They belong to me.  I remember—­”

“What do you remember?”

Her expression, which for a moment had been thoughtful, wavered and changed into a vague foolish smile.  “I can’t tell . . . something . . . it was sand, I think . . .”

“Who is she?” asked Mr. Laquedem.

“Her name is Julia Constantine.  Her parents are dead; an aunt looks after her—­a sister of her mother’s.”

He turned and appeared to be studying the frescoes.  “Julia Constantine—­an odd name,” he muttered.  “Do you know anything of her parentage?”

“Nothing except that her father was a labourer at Sheba, the manor-farm.  The family has belonged to this parish for generations.  I believe July is the last of them.”

He faced round upon her again. “Sand, did you say?  That’s a strange thing to remember.  How does sand come into your mind?  Think, now.”

She cast down her eyes; her fingers plucked at the daisy-chain.  After a while she shook her head.  “I can’t think,” she answered, glancing up timidly and pitifully.