"Do not forget that I am Pallas
Athene," she said. "My shield of brass is an easel and my mighty spear a
mahl-stick; but--I keep to my role, Alec."

He longed to clasp her in his arms; but it flashed upon him with an
inspiration from topmost Olympus that, all unwittingly, she had bound
herself to his fortunes.

"Then I leave it at that," he said quietly.

This sudden air of confidence was bewildering. She had been swept off
her feet by emotion, and the very considerations she thought she had
conquered were now tugging at her heart-strings. He must not go away as
her knight errant, eager and ready to slay dragons for her sake.

"Do not misunderstand me," she faltered. "I was only quoting a passage
from one of Kingsley's Greek fairy tales that has always had a peculiar
fascination for me."

"I'll get that story and read it. But I am interfering with your work,
and here comes your friend, the Humming Bee. If he said anything funny
to me just now, I should want to strangle him. So good-by, dear Joan. I
will turn up again to-morrow and tell you how I fared in each round."

And he was gone, leaving her breathless and shaken; for well she knew
that he held her pledged to unspoken vows, that his eager confidences
would apply alike to the day's sport and his future life. With hands
that trembled she essayed a further mixing of colors; but she scarcely
realized what she was doing, until a queer, cracked voice that yet was
musical sang softly in German at her elbow:

If the Song should chance to wander
Forth the Minstrel too must go.

It was passing strange that crooked little Felix Poluski, ex-Nihilist,
the wildest firebrand ever driven out of Warsaw, and the only living
artist who could put on canvas the gleam of heaven that lights the
Virgin's face in the "Immaculate Conception," should justify his
nickname of Le Bourdon by humming those two lines.

"I hope you are not a prophet, Felix," said Joan with a catch in her
throat.

"No, _ma belle_, no prophet, merely an avenger, a slayer of Kings. I see
you have just routed one."

She turned and looked into the deepset eyes of the old hunchback, and
for the first time noted that they were gray and very bright and
piercing. At the same time the fancy crossed her mind that perhaps Henri
Quatre had had blue eyes, bold yet tender, like unto Alec's.

"So you too are aware that Monsieur Delgrado is a Prince?" she said,
letting her thought bubble forth at