“A Cerberus!” he thought.  “This must be the old lady who understands Hindustani.  Now I wonder if she knows English?”

She seemed to understand that language too; or perhaps his kindly face disposed her in his favour.  He was allowed to pass within.

The house was empty.  Mrs. Meadows had presumably gone out for a ramble, taking the child with her.  He sat down and waited, glancing round the premises.  It was a peaceful sort of abode, pervaded by a strong sense of home.  It appealed to the bishop, who had domestic instincts and, despite his youth, was already a little weary of tossing about the world.  He envied his cousin’s happy married life.  Would such an existence ever fall to his own lot?  Although, like himself, she was only a bird of passage on Nepenthe, she had succeeded in impressing her personality upon those rather scantily furnished rooms and filling them with an atmosphere of England.  Heavy bowls of fresh roses were ranged about.  But what was she like, after all these years?  Would she recognize him?  Had she heard of his arrival on the island?

Mrs. Meadows failed to return.  Perhaps she had met some friend of neighbour who was keeping her to dinner together with the child.  The old woman seemed unwilling or unable to give him any information as to her whereabouts.  After waiting an hour, he scribbled a short note, left it on the writing-table, and took his leave.  The eyes of that fierce creature followed him right out of the garden.  So did the scent of roses. . . .

The afternoon was drawing to its close as Mr. Heard, in a placid, contemplative frame of mind, once more drew nigh the pink ramparts of the Old Town, purposing to find his way home on foot.

He entered the most westerly of its four gateways.  There were stone seats within the structure on either side of the road, convenient for sheltering from sun or rain.  Passing under the vaulted roof he met Count Caloveglia, that handsome soldier-like personality, who instantly recognized him and greeted him in friendliest fashion.

“Will you do me the pleasure of coming to my house, and allow me to offer you a cup of tea?  It is visible from here—­that rounded portal, do you see? with the fig tree leaning over the street.  Only a hundred yards.  Or perhaps we can rest awhile under this archway and converse.  It is always pleasant to watch the movements of the country-folk, and there is a peculiar charm in this evening light.  Well, let us sit down then.  I observe you are interested in those people.  A singular illusion, is it not?”

He referred to a group of men and boys who, stripped to the waist, were bearing aloft immense masses of some argent-coloured rock.

“You’ve guessed my thoughts,” replied the bishop.  “How on earth are they able to support such a weight?  They remind me of Atlas with the world on his shoulders.”