walking slowly now in painful silence, his heavy, lagging feet striking against the loose stones.  He was not thinking of the girl beside him; only something seemed to swell and grow and swell within his heart; it was all the torture of his days, weary hopes and weary disappointment, scorn rankling and throbbing, and the thought “I had rather call the devils my brothers and live with them in hell.”  He choked and gasped for breath, and felt involuntary muscles working in his face, and the impulses of a madman stirring him; he himself was in truth the realization of the vision of Caermaen that night, a city with moldering walls beset by the ghostly legion.  Life and the world and the laws of the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began.  The Celt assailed him, becoming from the weird wood he called the world, and his far-off ancestors, the “little people,” crept out of their caves, muttering charms and incantations in hissing inhuman speech; he was beleaguered by desires that had slept in his race for ages.

“I am afraid you are very tired, Master Lucian.  Would you like me to give you my hand over this rough bit?”

He had stumbled against a great round stone and had nearly fallen.  The woman’s hand sought his in the darkness; as he felt the touch of the soft warm flesh he moaned, and a pang shot through his arm to his heart.  He looked up and found he had only walked a few paces since Annie had spoken; he had thought they had wandered for hours together.  The moon was just mounting above the oaks, and the halo round the dark hill brightened.  He stopped short, and keeping his hold of Annie’s hand, looked into her face.  A hazy glory of moonlight shone around them and lit up their eyes.  He had not greatly altered since his boyhood; his face was pale olive in color, thin and oval; marks of pain had gathered about the eyes, and his black hair was already stricken with grey.  But the eager, curious gaze still remained, and what he saw before him lit up his sadness with a new fire.  She stopped too, and did not offer to draw away, but looked back with all her heart.  They were alike in many ways; her skin was also of that olive color, but her face was sweet as a beautiful summer night, and her black eyes showed no dimness, and the smile on the scarlet lips was like a flame when it brightens a dark and lonely land.

“You are sorely tired, Master Lucian, let us sit down here by the gate.”

It was Lucian who spoke next:  “My dear, my dear.”  And their lips were together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other fast.  And then the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweethearts’ breast, and burst into a passion of weeping.  The tears streamed down his face, and he shook with sobbing, in the happiest moment that he had ever lived.  The woman bent over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears were his consolation and his triumph.  Annie was whispering to him, her hand laid on his heart; she was whispering beautiful, wonderful words, that soothed him as a song.  He did not know what they meant.