s pleasures? Bah! it isn't reasonable, and if this knee of mine
will permit me to hobble into the presence of the Shining One some fine
morning I will have another guess at the riddle.

"To-morrow, now, is Friday," he continued, thoughtfully, "and my little
doves have been teasing me to give them an outing. There is the
certainty of a smile or even a kiss from the black-browed Nanna to
recompense my good-nature, and a possible secret hanging in the wind.
Finally, the off chance that the Shining One is not so hopelessly out of
fashion as we have been led to think. In this backsliding age he should
appreciate the honor of my attendance in person, to say nothing of the
venison and the wine." Kurt, the Knacker, laughed silently under his
curtain of black beard, and then stumped over to a bench in the gateway,
sheltered from the wind and open to the sun. There he sat him down and
proceeded to enjoy the pleasures of social converse with the warders on
guard, an occupation pleasingly diversified by an occasional black-jack
of ale and innumerable pipefuls of Kinnectikut shag. A highly respected
man among his fellow-citizens was Kurt, the Knacker.

* * * * *

It was the hour of the weekly sacrifice, and Prosper, the priest, stood
before the altar of the Shining One, performing the uncouth and ofttimes
wholly meaningless ritual of his office. Constans, in his capacity of
acolyte, stood on the right of the altar. He felt out of place and
somewhat ridiculous; he was conscious that he performed his
genuflections and posturing awkwardly, and there were all these women
watching him. Especially the two in the front row, accompanied by the
limping scoundrel to whom he had yesterday lent his arm on the Palace
Road. The one who seemed the elder of the two scanned him with bold,
black eyes, unaffectedly amused by his clumsiness; the other, whose face
was hidden by a veil, looked at him but once or twice, yet Constans felt
sure that she, too, was laughing at him. His position was becoming an
intolerable one. Would the farce never come to an end?

Now the service was over, and one by one the worshippers withdrew. Last
of all the two women, escorted by the man who called himself Kurt, the
Knacker. They passed within arm's-length of Constans, but he made as
though to turn his head away; youth is proverbially sensitive to
ridicule. He noticed, however, that the pilgrimage had not been of
marked benefit to the l