,
swayed, split open, and a female figure of transcendent loveliness attired
in the costume of Eve stepped forth and extended her lips towards the
bishop. What could the bishop do but salute them? With a roar of triumph
the demon resumed his proper shape. The bishop swooned. The apartment was
filled with the fumes of sulphur. The devil soared majestically out of the
window, carrying the sorcerer under one arm and Euschemon under the other.

It is commonly believed that the devil good-naturedly dropped Euschemon
back again into Paradise, or wheresoever he might have come from. It is
even added that he fell between Eulogius and Eucherius, who had been
arguing all the time respecting the merits of their bells, and resumed his
share in the discussion as if nothing had happened. Some maintain, indeed,
that the devil, chancing to be in want of a chaplain, offered the situation
to Euschemon, by whom it was accepted. But how to reconcile this assertion
with the undoubted fact that the duties of the post in question are at
present ably discharged by the Bishop of Metz, in truth we see not. One
thing is certain: thou wilt not find Euschemon's name in the calendar,
courteous reader.

The mulct to be imposed upon the parish of Epinal was never exacted. The
bell, ruptured beyond repair by the demon's violent exit, was taken back
and deposited in the museum of the town. The bells of Eulogius and
Eucherius were rung freely on occasion; but Epinal has not since enjoyed
any greater immunity from storms than the contiguous districts. One day an
aged traveller, who had spent many years in Heathenesse and in whom some
discerned a remarkable resemblance to the sorcerer, noticed the bell, and
asked permission to examine it. He soon discovered the inscription,
recognised the mysterious characters as Greek, read them without the least
difficulty--

"[Greek: Mae kinei Kamarinan akinaetos gar ameinoon]--"

and favoured the townsmen with this free but substantially accurate
translation:--

"CAN'T YOU LET WELL ALONE?"

BISHOP ADDO AND BISHOP GADDO

Midday, midsummer, middle of the dark ages. Fine healthy weather at the
city of Biserta in Barbary. Wind blowing strong from the sea, roughening
the dark blue waters, and fretting their indigo with foam, as though the
ocean's coursers champed an invisible curb. On land tawny sand whirling,
green palm-fans swaying and whistling, men abroad in the noonday blaze
rejoicing in the unwonted f