was thin froth on the shrivelled gums
of the man, the mild-voiced Inquisitor made a sign to the black friar,
and in a moment the music that had never ceased for six days was no
longer heard, though the air continued to hum with the vibrations of the
diabolical tone. The black friar knelt beside the dying one, and drawing
an ivory crucifix from his habit held it to Mendoza's face. Baruch,
aroused by the cessation of the torturing tonality, opened his eyes,
which were as black as blood, saw the symbol of Christianity, and with a
final effort forced from his cracked lips:

"Thou traitor!" As he attempted to blaspheme the sacred image he died,
despairingly invoking Adonai.

Then rolled forth in rich, triumphant tones the music of "Our Father who
art in heaven," while the drum sonorously sounded in the key of B, and
the mode was major.

A SON OF LISZT

It originated in the wicked vanity of Sir William Davenant
himself, who, disdaining his honest but mean descent from
the vintner, had the shameless impiety to deny his father
and reproach the memory of his mother by claiming
consanguinity with Shakespeare.

--REED'S SHAKESPEARE.

Little Holland was very dry.

Little Holland is a shapeless stretch of meadowland pierced by irregular
canals through which sluggishly flows the water at high tide. Odd shaped
houses are scattered about, one so near the river that its garden
overflows in the full of the moon. Dotted around stand conical heaps of
hay gleaned from this union of land and water. It is called Little
Holland, for small schooners sail by under the very nose of your house,
and the hired girl often forgets to serve the salad while flirting with
the skipper of some sloop. But this August night Little Holland was very
dry.

As we stood facing the river I curiously examined my host. His face was
deeply lined by life which had carved a quarter hundred little wrinkles
about his eyes and the corners of his mouth. His eyes were not true.
They shifted too much. His thick, brown hair was thrown off his
forehead in a most exuberantly artistic fashion. His nose jutted well
into the outer world, and I had to confess that his profile was of a
certainty striking. But his full face was disappointing. It was too
narrow; its expression was that of a meagre soul, and his eyes were very
close together. Yet I liked Piloti; he played the piano well, sang with
no little feeling, painted neat water sketche