mmons of the master. From the
open window Paul looked out over the valley; and a rainbow linked the
crescent of the hills, point to point. Backed by the murk of the moving
storm, Babylon Hall looked like a giant sarcophagus behind which Titan
hands had draped a sable curtain; and it seemed to Paul as he looked,
wondering, that the arc of heaven-born colours which no brush may
reproduce, rested upon the hidden roof of Dovelands Cottage, crossed
Babylon Hall, and swept down to the rain mist of the horizon, down to
the distant sea. The palette of the gods began to fade from view, and
Paul turned impulsively to his companion.

Jules Thessaly, his elbows resting upon his knees, was staring down,
apparently at the flat-crowned black hat which he held in his hands. The
car had resumed its smooth progress.

"An omen!" cried Paul. "The world is _not_ past redemption!"

He spoke wildly, emotionally, not choosing his words, scarce knowing
what he desired to convey. Jules Thessaly glanced aside at him.

"The world _desires_ redemption," he said. "It is for you to gratify the
world's desire."

XII

The mystery which steals out from the woods, creeps down from the hills,
and lurks beneath the shadowed hedgerows at beckoning of dusk, was
abroad and potent when Paul Mario that evening walked up Babylon Lane
towards the Hall. Elemental forces, which the ancients clothed in
semi-human shape and named and feared, moved beside him and breathed
strange counsels in his ear. The storm had released uneasy spirits from
their bondage in crannies of primeval hills, and it was on such a night
as this that many a child has glimpsed the Folk tripping lightly around
those fairy-rings which science would have us believe due to other
causes than the mystic dance. The Pipes of Pan were calling, and up in
the aisles of the hills moonbeams slyly sought and found bare-limbed
dryads darting from the eagerness of wooing fauns. Progress has banished
those Pandean spirits from the woodlands, but the moon is the mother of
magic, and her children steal out, furtive, half fearful, when she
raises her lamp as of old.

Between prescience and imagination the borderline is ill defined.
Although Dovelands Cottage was seemingly sleeping, or deserted, Paul
pictured Flamby standing by the stile beyond, where the orchard path
began. And when, nearing it, he paused, looking to the right, there was
she, a figure belonging to the elfin world of which he dreamed, an