ever suggested to his brain.  Carefully numbering the pages, he folded them in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed—­then addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet together, and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went his great chance of immortal Fame.  Immortal Fame!—­what a grand vista of fair possibilities those words unveiled to his imagination!  Lost in pleasant musings, he looked out again on the landscape.  The sun had sunk behind the mountains so far, that nothing was left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances poised against the purple and roseate clouds.  A slight click caused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,—­he turned round in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas entered, carrying a small richly chased silver casket.

“Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last,” he said with a smile.  “I began to think you were never coming.  My correspondence is finished,—­and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England—­where I pray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended my efforts!”

“You pray?” queried Heliobas, meaningly, “or you hope?  There is a difference between the two.”

“I suppose there is,” he returned nonchalantly.  “And certainly—­to be correct—­I should have said I hope, for I never pray.  What have you there?”—­this as Heliobas set the casket he carried down on the table before him.  “A reliquary?  And is it supposed to contain a fragment of the true cross?  Alas!  I cannot believe in these fragments,—­there are too many of them!”

Heliobas laughed gently.

“You are right!  Moreover, not a single splinter of the true cross is in existence.  It was, like other crosses then in general use, thrown aside as lumber,—­and had rotted away into the earth long before the Empress Helena started on her piously crazed wanderings.  No, I have nothing of that sort in here,”—­and taking a key from a small chain that hung at his girdle he unlocked the casket.  “This has been in the possession of the various members of our Order for ages,—­it is our chief treasure, and is seldom, I may say never, shown to strangers,—­but the mystic mandate you have received concerning the ‘field of Ardath’ entitles you to see what I think must needs prove interesting to you under the circumstances.”  And opening the box he lifted out a small square volume bound in massive silver and double-clasped.  “This,” he went on, “is the original text of a portion of the ‘Visions of Esdras,’ and dates from the thirteenth year after the downfall of Babylon’s commercial prosperity.”

Alwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amazement.  “Not possible!” he cried. ... then he added eagerly, “May I look at it?”

Silently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand.  As he undid the clasps a faint odor like that of long dead rose-leaves came like a breath on the air, ... he opened it, and saw that its pages consisted of twelve moderately thick sheets of ivory, which were covered all over with curious small characters finely engraved thereon by some evidently sharp and well-pointed instrument.  These letters were utterly unknown to Alwyn:  he had seen nothing like them in any of the ancient tongues, and he examined them perplexedly.