rs' hand tightened all-unconsciously upon Sir Beverley's arm. His face
was very white. In his eyes there shone a curious hunger--such a look as
might have gleamed in the eyes of the prisoners behind the gates.

Again came the words, triumphantly repeated:

"The gates of brass before Him burst,
The iron fetters yield."

And an odd sound that was almost a sob broke from Piers.

Sir Beverley looked at him sharply; but in the same moment he drew
back, relinquishing his hold, and stepped lightly across the room to
the window.

There was a decided pause before the next verse. Piers stood with his
face to the blind, making no movement. At last, tentatively, like the
song of a very shy angel, a single boy's voice took up the melody.

"He comes, the broken heart to bind,
The bleeding soul to cure,
And with the treasures of His grace
To bless the humble poor."

Sir Beverley sat down again at the table. Half mechanically his eyes
turned to the pictured face on the wall, the face that smiled so
enigmatically. Not once in a year did his eyes turn that way. To-night he
regarded it with half-ironical interest. He had no pity to spare for
broken hearts. He did not believe in them. No man could have endured more
than he had had to endure. He had been dragged through hell itself. But
it had hardened, not broken his heart. Save in one respect he knew that
he could never be made to suffer any more. Save for that charred
remnant, there was nothing left for the flame to consume.

And so through all the bitter years he had borne that smiling face upon
his wall, cynically indifferent to the beauty which had been the rapture
and the agony of his life,--a man released from the place of his torment
because his capacity for suffering was almost gone.

Again there were two children's voices singing, and that of the shy angel
gathered confidence. With a species of scoffing humour Sir Beverley's
stony eyes travelled to the window. They rested upon his boy standing
there with bent head--a mute, waiting figure with a curious touch of
pathos in its pose. Sir Beverley's sudden frown drew his forehead. What
ailed the youngster? Why did he stand as if the whole world were resting
on his shoulders?

He made an impatient movement. "For Heaven's sake," he said testily,
"tell those squalling children to go!"

Piers did not stir. "In a moment, sir!" he said.

And so, clear through the night air, the last verse came unhindered
to an end.

"Our