suddenly recovering, he said:

'Hast thou that song written in words? If so, sell it to me.'

'I have it,' replied the minstrel; and, taking from his bosom some
time-worn parchments, selected one. 'This is it; thou art welcome--thou
shalt not purchase. The parchment is naught to me; the words are written
on my heart. This copy shall be thine.'

Chios took it, and saw the song was written on the back of an old Celtic
manuscript. He cared not for these unknown characters. What he wanted
was the song only, and for that he would not take a thousand drachmas.

Pressing some golden pieces into the hands of the minstrel, he said:

'Come to-morrow and sing to me. We are friends. Go now to thine home,
for the chill evening air is wedding the night, and thou mayest take
hurt.'

When Chios was alone the torrent of his mind was unloosed.

He lit the silver lamp, threw himself on his couch, drew out the
parchment, gazed long and intently on it, read it again and again--

'Princess, priestess, both was she,'

until his eyes were suffused with tears, and, overcome with his
feelings, he fell asleep.

The next day he awaited the coming of the singer, but he came not. The
day following did not bring him. Then he determined to seek him, and,
after finding the place of his abode, found the spirit of the minstrel
had moved to a far-away shore. The singer had sung his last song on
earth.

This was told to Chios by an old woman with whom the minstrel lodged.

'What is thy name, good man?' said she.

'Chios.'

'Art thou Chios, the great artist of Ionia?'

'They say so.'

'Then take those parchments. The poor fellow wished it so. And, in
dying, he uttered thy name and another. Poor man! he was only a
strolling minstrel, but I verily believe he has gone to the Great. He
was no ordinary man. Peace rest his soul!'

Chios went his way, muttering to himself:

'Ah! peace rest his soul. What of my own? Would I could reach Saronia!
It is a long time since I met her. I dare not go again. Now my soul is
greatly troubled. I am wavering in faith and in doubt as to what is
truth. In danger for my doubt; in love with the being I may never meet.
For aught I know, death may seal me in oblivion, and there shall be no
more of me. All this confronts me, and more. I firmly believe I could
place before Saronia strong evidence from the song and the words of the
minstrel. See her I must. If I die, one is free--free if I live again! I
_must_