ther bitter smile, 'supposing it not to
be a native lie--natives have been known to lie, my lord--it's
the sort of story one reads about in the Middle Ages, the sort of
legend likely to linger. He was seen going into a church on a
certain ill-starred night.'

The Bishop gave a start and interrupted him. 'Do you know what
yesterday evening was? Why, it was Saint Mark's Eve.'

Smythe smiled a queer livid smile. 'Yes, I thought of that all
along, since the boy mentioned the porch,' he said. 'I've just
been looking up the old belief in that new book of yours. I was
seen going in, therefore I must look to go out in these next
twelve months.

A year, a month, a week, a natural day
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus will be damn'd.

The Bishop smiled at the quotation, but looked anxiously at his
guest. Was he really taking his subliminal self's choice of date
to heart? He proceeded to recount his own unfaith in thirteen's
black magic, also in the traditional properties of salt and
broken mirrors. He gave instances of disproof in his own unended
career.

But Smythe, though he laughed with him, seemed rather restrained
and silent: the last hour of that evening appeared to hang fire
somehow. Towards the end of it, Smythe talked of his wife. 'She
is at her old home,' he said, and mentioned a village very near
to Oxford.

'I know,' said his host, looking into the wood fire. He was
watching the Cherwell swirl through a narrow archway. He was
conscious of heavenly blue in the white limbo ceiling above him,
and the cushions of his chair had a grassy feel.

'She's gone home,' said Smythe, 'and she's not well, and I've not
been well.'

'You look as if you want rest and change,' said the Bishop
uneasily.

'I think of going a trip to the old country,' said Smythe. 'I was
born out here, and haven't ever seen it. I'd like to see it
once.'

'O, do go,' said his host. 'It is worth going far. Yes, all that
long way.'

Not many minutes after they said good-night.

But the Bishop did not go to bed at once after his guest had
gone. He reached for his Keats, and read, 'The Eve of Saint
Mark'; then he reflected.

'Strange are the uses of leper windows,' he thought. 'How I
should like to know what I may know this time next year, if only
I didn't know I'd better not know it now! Well, be it a sig