or the frescoes. A thin coat of plaster had been laid over
them to receive the second series, which consisted of the most
disgusting and fantastic images, traced in black. One of these drawings
represented Satan himself--an erect figure, with hairy paws clasped in a
supplicating posture, thick black horns, and eyes which (for additional
horror) the artist had painted red and edged with a circle of white.
At his feet crawled the hindmost limb of a peculiarly loathsome monster
with claws stuck in the soil. Close by a nun was figured, sitting in a
pensive attitude, her cheek resting on the back of her hand, her elbow
supported by a hideous dwarf, and at some distance a small house, or
prison, with barred windows and a small doorway crossed with heavy
bolts.

As I said, this upper series had been but partially scraped away, and as
my guest and I stood at a little distance, I leave you to imagine, if
you can, the incongruous tableau; the Prince of Darkness almost touching
the mourners beside the cross; the sorrowful nun and grinning dwarf side
by side with a ship in full sail, which again seemed to be forcing her
way into a square and forbidding prison, etc.

Mr. Laquedem conned all this for some while in silence, holding his chin
with finger and thumb.

"And it was here you discovered the plaque?" he asked at length.

I pointed to the exact spot.

"H'm!" he mused, "and that ship must be Greek or Levantine by its rig.
Compare the crowns on her masts, too, with that on the plaque . . ."
He stepped to the wall and peered into the frescoes. "Now this hand and
arm--"

"They belong to me," said a voice immediately behind me, and turning, I
saw that the poor girl had followed us into the church.

The young Jew had turned also. "What do you mean by that?" he asked
sharply.

"She means nothing," I began, and made as if to tap my forehead
significantly.

"Yes, I do mean something," she persisted. "They belong to me.
I remember--"

"What do you remember?"

Her expression, which for a moment had been thoughtful, wavered and
changed into a vague foolish smile. "I can't tell . . . something . . .
it was sand, I think . . ."

"Who is she?" asked Mr. Laquedem.

"Her name is Julia Constantine. Her parents are dead; an aunt looks
after her--a sister of her mother's."

He turned and appeared to be studying the frescoes. "Julia
Constantine--an odd name," he muttered. "Do you know anything of her
parentage?"

"No