e born with a soul that cared little
for sordid things, was not common, except in Celtic circles where the
unseen thing is more real than the seen; where gold and precious stones
are only valued in so far as they can purchase freedom, dreams and
desire.

Louise had not been thrilled without cause. Orlando, the real material
Orlando, had driven out to Nolan Doyle's ranch, but having come, could
not at first bring himself to enter. Something in him kept saying that
it was not fair to her; kept admonishing him to let things take their
course; that now was not the time to see her; that it might place her in
a false position. Blameless though she was, she might be blamed by the
world, if he and she, on the night that she fled from Joel Mazarine
should meet, and, above all, meet alone--and what was the good of
meeting at all, if they did not meet alone! What could two voiceless
people say to each other, people who only spoke with their hearts and
souls, when others were staring at them, watching every act, listening
for every word. His better sense kept telling him to go back to Slow
Down Ranch.

But there she was inside Nolan Doyle's house, and he had come
deliberately to see her.

He stood outside in the garden near the great spreading elm-tree, torn
by a sense of duty and a sense of desire; but the desire was to let
her see by his presence that he would be a tower of strength to her, no
matter what happened. It was not the desire which had possessed him whom
Patsy Kernaghan had called the keeper of the "zoolyogical" garden.

He had just made up his mind that courage was the right thing: that
he must see her in the presence of others for one minute, whatever the
issue, when she came out with Patsy Kernaghan, the Young Doctor, and
Norah and Nolan Doyle. None saw him, and, as they seated themselves,
he stepped noiselessly under the spreading branches of the elm-tree.
He would not speak to them yet; he would wait. In the shade made by the
drooping branches he could not be seen, yet he could hear and see all.

There was silence for a moment, and then Patsy began the tale of St.
Droid--"whoever he was," as Patsy said to himself; for he was going to
make up out of his head this story of St. Droid and St. Droid's Day, and
Queen Moira, Filion and Fiona. It was a bold idea, but it gave Patsy the
opportunity of his life.

His description of Black Brian, the rich, ruthless King, to whom Queen
Moira gave her daughter Fiona, desp