h loves, so strange in his simplicity, in his purity--surely he
would lay down his guileless life without a pang. Could he only be
found! or would he appear!

The herald's voice had died away for the third time amid a fanfare of
trumpets. At the foot of the steps of the long terrace, by the Roman
fountain, a delicate and lovely form stood on the grassy verge before
the altar, by the leaping and rushing water's side; a little to the
left, whence the road from Hades was supposed to come, stood the divine
messenger, the lofty herald--clad in white, with a white wand; behind
the altar stood the wretched priest, on whom the fearful task devolved,
the passion of terror, of pity, and of love, traced upon his face; all
sound of music had died away; a hush as of death itself fell upon the
expectant crowd; from green arch and trellised walk the throng of
masques, actors and spectators alike, pressed forward upon the lawn
before the altar.... The priest tore the fillet from his brow and threw
down his knife.

* * * * *

The darkness of the cave gave place to a burst of dazzling sunlight as
Mark and the little Princess, who in the darkness had resumed her
masque, came out suddenly from the unseen opening upon one of the great
stone bases by the side of the steps. To the boy's wonderstruck sense
the flaring light, the mystic and awful forms, the thronged masques, the
shock of surprise and terror, fell with a stunning force. He uttered a
sharp cry like that of a snared and harmless creature of the woods. He
pressed his hands before his face to shut out the bewildering scene,
and, stepping suddenly backward in his surprise, fell from the edge of
the stone platform some eight feet to the ground. A cry of natural
terror broke from the victim, in place of the death-song she was
expected to utter, and she left her place and sprang forward towards the
steps. The crowd of masques which surrounded the Prince came forward
tumultuously, and a hurried movement and cry ran through the people,
half of whom were uncertain whether the settled order of the play was
interrupted or not.

Mark lay quite still on the grass, his eyes closed, the Signorina
bending over him; but the herald, who was in fact director of the play,
waved his wand imperiously before the masques, and they fell back.

"Resume your place, Signorina," he said, "this part of the play has,
apparently, failed. You will sing your death-song, and the