fluid, sucking it greedily from the cup ere
he returned it to Perpetua.

The girl took it unconsciously. She had forgotten the fool in his
phrase, in the name he gave to the King. Her springs had been sweetened
by hearing of Robert the Good, of his gentleness, his justice, his
mercy, of how men loved him in Sicily. She had taken it for granted that
his golden reign would endure forever, and now she learned from these
mocking lips that gentleness and justice and mercy were in the dust.
"Robert the Bad," she murmured to herself, and the words made her
shudder in the sun.

The fool leered at her as if he read her thoughts, and he laughed
briskly.

"Angel of Arcady," he piped, "shall I tell you tales of the King to
admonish your innocency?"

Perpetua's eyes and mind came back from the sky into which she had been
staring. There might be a new king in Sicily, but she had her old work
to do.

"I have my task to do," she answered. "But you can talk to me at my
work, if you choose."

"What is your task?" questioned the fool, and the girl answered, simply:

"To serve my father's sword!"

She turned from her interrogator and entered her dwelling, passing
between its fringe of columns, as slim and erect as they, while the fool
gaped at her. In another moment she reappeared, carrying with her that
which contrasted strangely enough with her sex, her beauty, and her
youth. She bore in her strong hands, and bore with ease, a great
two-handed sword--the two-handed sword of the executioner, her
father--the two-handed sword that was the symbol of the stroke of
justice in the eyes of all the world. With an air of pride the girl
carried the great weapon, the pride of a child with its doll, of a
mother with her infant, of a soldier with his flag.

At the sight of her the fool flung up his arms and emitted a queer, ropy
gust of laughter.

"Oh, ho!" he gurgled, "oh, ho! I think I know you now. You are the
daughter of Theron the executioner."

The girl looked straightly at him, her eyes shining under levelled
brows. She let the point of the great sword rest on the grass, and she
leaned upon its mighty cross-piece, resting her cheek against its
handle. Her red hair ran in ripples over her shoulders and over the hilt
of the blade, red as ever the blood the blade had caused to flow of old.

"I am the daughter of Theron the executioner," she said, gravely.

The monster flung a sneer from thrust-out lips, emphasizing it with
thrust