and troubled night. Rest we had
none. Yet next morning H. C.--whose poetical temperament should have
made him susceptible to all these influences--informed us that he had
slept the dreamless sleep of the just. He had heard and seen nothing.
This seemed unfair, and was not an equal division of labour.

Before daylight we were up and ready for our pilgrimage. It required
some courage to turn out, for the world was still wrapped in Egyptian
darkness. In the east as yet there was not the faintest glimmer of dawn.
In the house itself a ghostly silence still reigned. Apparently
throughout the little settlement not a soul stirred. Nevertheless it was
the end of the night, and before we were ready to sally forth there were
evidences of a waking world. We went down through the dark passages
carrying a light, which flickered and flared and threw weird shadows
around.

We opened the door and passed out into the clear, cold morning. The
stars still shone in the dark blue sky. Through the gloom, passing out
of the quadrangle, we discerned a mysterious figure approaching: a
cowled monk with silent footstep. It was Salvador, true to his word.

"We are both punctual," he said, joining us. "I think the morning will
be all we could desire."

It had been arranged that breakfast should be ready at the restaurant.
Salvador had refused to dine with us, he did not refuse breakfast. The
meal was taken by candle-light, and he added much to the romance of the
scene as he threw back his cowl, his well-formed head and pale, refined
face gaining softness and beauty in the subdued artificial light.
Salvador had the square forehead of the musician, but eyes and mouth
showed a certain weakness of purpose, betraying a man easily influenced
by those he cared for, or by a stronger will than his own. Perhaps,
after all, he had done wisely to withdraw from temptation.

This morning his monkish reticence fell from him; he came out of his
shell, and proved an agreeable companion with a great power to charm.
Once more for a short time he seemed to become a man of the world.

"You make me feel as though I had returned to life," he said. "It is
wonderful how our nature clings to us. I thought myself a monk, dead to
all past thoughts and influences; I looked upon my old life as a dream:
and here at the first touch I feel as though I could throw aside vows
and breviary and cowl and follow you into the world. Well for me perhaps
that I have not the choice gi