g roofs of Bruges, grand, mysterious, dead.
Could it be that _l'Intruse_ of whom she had just been reading, that
fatal, unseen visitor, was even now crossing the sepulchral city; could
it be that the short ripples upon the face of the dark water were
her shadow, while she herself had reached the threshold of the villa,
bringing with her the coveted gift of eternal sleep! The church bells
chimed the hour of five. High, high up, near the white clouds, magic
voices of innumerable bells sang over the houses, the squares, the
streets of Bruges that melancholy incantation which renders its rest
eternal. Jeanne felt two cool hands upon her eyes, a wave of perfume
touched her cheek, a breath stirred her hair, whispering "_encore une
intruse_," and then soft lips kissed her. She did not seem surprised;
and, raising her hand, caressed the face bending over her, saying:
"Welcome, Noemi. _Magari fossi tu l'Intruse_," (Would that you were
_l'Intruse_.)

Noemi failed to understand.

"_Magari_," she said. "Is that Italian? It sounds like Arabic. Explain
at once, please."

Jeanne rose. "You would not understand any better if I did," she said
with a smile. "Shall we have our Italian conversation lesson now?"

"Yes, with pleasure," answered Noemi.

"Where did you go with my brother?"

"To the Hospital of St. John, to call on Memling."

"That's all right; let us talk about Memling. But first tell me whether
Carlino made you a declaration?"

The girl laughed. "Yes, he made me a declaration of war, and I did
likewise _to he_."

"To him, you should say. I wish he would fall in love with you," added
Jeanne seriously. The girl frowned.

"I do not," she said.

"Why? Is he not charming, brilliant, cultured, and distinguished? He is
very wealthy too, you know. We may despise riches, but after all they
are very good in their way."

Noemi d'Arxel placed her hands on her friend's shoulders, and gazed
steadily into her eyes. The blue questioning eyes were grave and sad;
the brown eyes, thus scrutinised, bore the gaze with firmness, flashing
in turn defiance, embarrassment, and mirth.

"Well," said the girl, "I enjoy seeing Memling with Signor Carlino,
playing classical music with him, discussing a Kempis with him,
although this affection he has recently developed for a Kempis seems
a profanation, when you consider that he believes in nothing. _Je suis
catholique autant qu'on peut l'etre lorsqu'on ne l'est pas_, but when I
hear an un