engagement
merely because a more charming one offered itself: he would as soon have
cheated at cards.

And so, as they went side by side up the avenue, in the mellow light
of the westering sun, preceded in their course, and pursued, and
surrounded, by the mob of hoarse infatuate youths, Zuleika's face was
as that of a little girl sulking. Vainly the Duke reasoned with her. She
could NOT see the point of view.

With that sudden softening that comes to the face of an angry woman who
has hit on a good argument, she turned to him and asked "How if I hadn't
saved your life just now? Much you thought about your guest when you
were going to dive and die!"

"I did not forget him," answered the Duke, smiling at her casuistry.
"Nor had I any scruple in disappointing him. Death cancels all
engagements."

And Zuleika, worsted, resumed her sulking. But presently, as they neared
Judas, she relented. It was paltry to be cross with him who had resolved
to die for her and was going to die so on the morrow. And after all, she
would see him at the concert to-night. They would sit together. And all
to-morrow they would be together, till the time came for parting. Hers
was a naturally sunny disposition. And the evening was such a lovely
one, all bathed in gold. She was ashamed of her ill-humour.

"Forgive me," she said, touching his arm. "Forgive me for being horrid."
And forgiven she promptly was. "And promise you will spend all to-morrow
with me." And of course he promised.

As they stood together on the steps of the Warden's front-door, exalted
above the level of the flushed and swaying crowd that filled the whole
length and breadth of Judas Street, she implored him not to be late for
the concert.

"I am never late," he smiled.

"Ah, you're so beautifully brought up!"

The door was opened.

"And--oh, you're beautiful besides!" she whispered; and waved her hand
to him as she vanished into the hall.

VIII

A few minutes before half-past seven, the Duke, arrayed for dinner,
passed leisurely up the High. The arresting feature of his costume was
a mulberry-coloured coat, with brass buttons. This, to any one versed in
Oxford lore, betokened him a member of the Junta. It is awful to think
that a casual stranger might have mistaken him for a footman. It does
not do to think of such things.

The tradesmen, at the doors of their shops, bowed low as he passed,
rubbing their hands and smiling, hoping inwardly that they took n