nding buildings of the villa for a
broken background. An untamed profusion of green life rioted here; pale
flowers of night, whose fragrance hung heavy on the air, swam in a
sea-green dusk; ivy clung and clambered along the crannies of gray
walls; roses sprawled in a red torrent of perfume over the yellowing
images of old gods and heroes. In one corner a placid lake gazed
still-eyed at the sky, with white swans floating on its mirrored black
and silver. Nicanor drew breath with a quick pleasure which was almost
pain; here one might think great thoughts and dream great dreams. For it
was as a bit of that Forgotten Land of dreams, through which all men
have journeyed, though the road to it is lost, with a glamour of mystery
and a charm upon it which held him spellbound.

Out of the velvet shadow into the still evening light, one came toward
him, in silence, with dark hair hanging in heavy braids on either side
of her pale face, with dusky eyes and scarlet lips and jewels that
glimmered in the folds of her perfumed robes. He bowed before her,
keeping his eyes upon her face; for though he was a slave, he was first
a man, and next a poet, which means a lover of all things beautiful, and
he had never seen a woman like her in all his life before.

"Who art thou?" she said. And though she was a great lady and the
daughter of that noble house, she was yet a girl, and scarce beyond her
childhood, and she drooped her head before his glance.

"Nicanor, thy slave," he answered, but his voice was not a slave's
voice.

"Why art thou here?" she asked him. "This is mine own place, where none
but I and my women come."

"I crave thy pardon, lady," he said; and told her how he came. In turn,
her eyes rested on his face; and he, meeting them, felt his pulses leap
to a sudden shock which sent the blood back pounding to his heart. For
they were wandering eyes, awake and seeing, yet which slept, with no
light of reason in them. So then he understood why the name of their
lady was spoken throughout the household in hushed tones as of one dead;
why she was so closely hidden from the eyes of the world. And she was
the Lady Varia,--the lord Eudemius's only child,--the last of his great
house, fair, futile flower.

"Nicanor," she repeated, with a pretty halting on the word. Her voice
was low and dreaming, more tender than a dove's. "Where have I heard
that name? Why, Nerissa hath told me thou art he who telleth tales to
the men and maids at