ua had wandered hither and thither in its familiar deeps, drinking
the cup of pain. In one short day she had learned from foul face and
from fair face such knowledge of the evil of the world as tortured her
brave heart. Nothing could stagger her belief in goodness as the law of
life, but she had not dreamed until this day of the strength of its
enemies. The bright of face, made in the mould of beauty, stamped with
the seal of grace, these could be traitors to God, slayers of peace.

Torn by such thoughts, she drifted almost unconsciously, fighting
with her sorrow, to all the dear places of her daily visits--the
companionable tree, the well-spring of cool waters, the bowl-shaped
hollow in which she loved to lie and see nothing but the sky, the little
shrine in the clearing where a path ran through the wood--to each of
these spots she went in turn as one who makes a pilgrimage. All were the
same in the sweet moonlight as they had been that morning in the light
of the sweet sun. How green the world had seemed that morning!--and now
it had grown gray and the birds sang nothing but dirges. But the girl
was too strong to let her young sadness master her. Stoutly she told
herself she was a fool to think that the world was changed because of a
maid's sorrow; bravely she bade herself bear her cross. To-morrow,
perhaps, she would tell her father, and they would climb higher on the
hills, hide deeper in the woods--fly somewhere from the envy of the evil
King. To-night she might not sleep, but at least she would not weep.

Perpetua made her way homeward through the wood. As she passed into the
open space where the ancient fane had risen, she saw in the bright
moonlight the figure of a man extended at full length on the grass. A
sudden fear for her father leaped into her mind--could he have fallen
there? She ran swiftly forward, but as she neared the prostrate figure
her fears fled, for she recognized by his garments the withered fool of
the morning. He seemed to be moaning like a beast in pain, and her
distaste of him could make no head against her pity. She knew, too,
being Sicilian, how dangerous it was to lie in the moonlight--to do so
was to court madness. She bent down beside him and touched him very
softly on the shoulder. "What is the matter with you?" she asked.

She had moved so lightly over the thick grasses--he was steeped so
heavily in his stupor--that he did not know of her approach until she
spoke. Then Robert raised