erything.

Trembling with excitement, he went and stood before the cases, scanning
the various titles. Again his lucky star guided him; on the row level
with his eyes stood an encyclopaedia of the applied arts and sciences. He
carried the two bulky volumes to a convenient table and sat there
absorbed.

Constans looked up in the sudden consciousness that he was observed, and
met the half-defiant, half-terrified, and wholly curious gaze of a girl.
Hardly more than a child she seemed, not over fourteen at the outside,
and with a figure that was all flatness and unlovely angles. Certainly
an exceedingly ugly duckling, yet there was promise of future swanship
in the clean curves of her neck and in the firm poise of the small head.
Moreover, her coloring was good, a clear brown through which a scarlet
flush, born of the excitement of the moment, glowed intermittently, like
the flashing of distant signal-flags. And in her eyes there was a
curious red glint where the light fell slantingly upon the pupil.
Constans found his feet awkwardly and stood gazing at her. She in turn
scanned him with attention, and obviously grew at ease in noting his
increasing disconcertment.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, abruptly. "You are not of the
children of the Doomsmen."

"No," he answered, and compressed his lips obstinately.

"You are very foolish," she retorted, with a slow shake of her head. "If
Master Quinton Edge catches you he will nick your ear, and then you will
have to row in the galleys."

Constans winced. Could she possibly have discovered his secret? But no;
the hair fell in a thick wave upon his ears--it had been but a chance
shot.

"I am not afraid," he said, coldly. The tawny eyes, with their heart of
fire, rested upon him approvingly.

"I am Esmay," she answered. "What is your name?"

"What does it matter?--well, then, Constans." He spoke impatiently,
being anxious to get back to his book. He glanced at it longingly, and
she, who, as it afterwards appeared, had a part to play, took the cue.

"Such stupid-looking books!" She bent carelessly over the volume on the
table. "Nothing but wheels and dotted lines and wheels again. It is a
ridiculous book."

"It is not," said Constans, hotly.

The damsel smiled. "Oh, if you like that sort of thing, I know of a book
over there." She pointed airily to an alcove at the opposite end of the
hall. "It has many more pictures and many more wheels in colors, too,
red a