ished,--fell and vanished,--and left no stain.

The Wanderer looked on her face, but the beauty and the terror of it, as
she raised it, were more than he could bear, and he stood like those who
saw the terror and the beauty of that face which changes men to stone.

For the lovely eyes of Helen stared wide, her lips, yet quivering with
the last notes of song, were wide open in fear. She seemed like one who
walks alone, and suddenly, in the noonday light, meets the hated dead;
encountering the ghost of an enemy come back to earth with the instant
summons of doom.

For a moment the sight of her terror made even the Wanderer afraid. What
was the horror she beheld in this haunted shrine, where was none save
themselves alone? What was with them in the shrine?

Then he saw that her eyes were fixed on his golden armour which Paris
once had worn, on the golden shield with the blazon of the White Bull,
on the golden helm, whose visor was down so that it quite hid his eyes
and his face--and then at last her voice broke from her:

"_Paris! Paris! Paris!_ Has Death lost hold of thee? Hast thou come
to drag me back to thee and to shame? Paris, dead Paris! Who gave thee
courage to pass the shadows of men whom on earth thou hadst not dared to
face in war?"

Then she wrung her hands, and laughed aloud with the empty laugh of
fear.

A thought came into that crafty mind of the Wanderer's, and he answered
her, not in his own voice, but in the smooth, soft, mocking voice of the
traitor, Paris, whom he had heard forswear himself in the oath before
Ilios.

"So, lady, thou hast not yet forgiven Paris? Thou weavest the ancient
web, thou singest the ancient songs--art thou still unkind as of old?"

"Why art thou come back to taunt me?" she said, and now she spoke as if
an old familiar fear and horror were laying hold of her and mastering
her again, after long freedom. "Was it not enough to betray me in the
semblance of my wedded lord? Why dost thou mock?"

"In love all arts are fair," he answered in the voice of Paris. "Many
have loved thee, Lady, and they are all dead for thy sake, and no love
but mine has been more strong than death. There is none to blame us now,
and none to hinder. Troy is down, the heroes are white dust; only Love
lives yet. Wilt thou not learn, Lady, how a shadow can love?"

She had listened with her head bowed, but now she leaped up with blazing
eyes and face of fire.

"Begone!" she said, "the heroes are dea