pens to be one of them," she
replied, forcing a laugh.

"Well, well," said Narcissus, "take M. Raoul away and give him his tea;
but he must come with me afterwards, while there is light, and we will
go over the site together. I must fetch my map."

He hurried across the hall.

"Come, M. Raoul," said Dorothea, stepping past her guest and leading
the way, "by a small detour we can reach that end of the library which
is least crowded."

He followed without lifting his eyes, apparently lost in thought. The
atrium on this side opened on a corridor which crossed the front door,
and was closed by a door at either end--the one admitting to the
service rooms, the other to the library. Flat columns relieved the
blank wall of this passage, with monstrous copies of Raphael's cartoons
filling the interspaces; on the other hand four tall windows, two on
either side of the door, looked out upon the _porte cochere_, the avenue,
and the rolling hills beyond Axcester. By one of these windows M. Raoul
halted--and Dorothea halted too, slightly puzzled.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, but there is one thing your brother forgets! What
became of his happy colonists in the end? He told us that early in the
fifth century the Emperor Honorius--was it not?--withdrew his
legions, and wrote that Britain must henceforth look after itself. I
listened for the end of the story, but your brother did not supply it.
Yet sooner or later one and the same dreadful fate must have overtaken
all these pleasant scattered homes--sack and fire and slaughter--
slaughter for all the men, for the women slavery and worse. Does one
hear of any surviving? Out of this warm life into silence--" He paused
and shivered. "Very likely they did not guess for a long while. Look,
Mademoiselle, at the Fosse Way, stretching yonder across the hills:
figure yourself a daughter of the old Roman homestead standing here and
watching the little cloud of dust that meant the retreating column, the
last of your protection. You would not guess what it meant--you, to
whom each day has brought its restful round; who have lived only to be
good and reflect the sunshine upon all near you. And I--your slave,
suppose me, standing beside you--might guess as little."

He took a step and touched her hand. His face was still turned to the
window.

"Time! time!" he went on in a low voice, charged with passion. "It
eats us all! Brr--how I hate it! How I hate the grave! There lies the
sting, Mademoiselle--t