sess it. I know that the dead are dead, and I know not to what
ambuscade I, their leader, sent them.... I fell, not wilfully, but
through lack of will. Now, an the Godhead within me be not flown, I will
recover myself,--but never what is past and gone, never the dead
flowers, never the souls I set loose, never one hour's eternal scar!...
Enough of this. Ride on to the inn, for Ferne House keepeth guests no
longer. To-morrow, an you choose, come again, and we will say farewell.
Why, old school-fellow! thou seest I am sane--no hermit or madman, as
the clowns of this region would have me. But will you go?--will you go?"

"It seems that you yourself journey to the town upon occasion," said
Arden. "Ride with me now, Mortimer. No country lass more sweet than the
air to-day!"

The other shook his head. "Business has taken me there. But now that I
have sold this house I at present go no more."

"Sold this house!" echoed Arden, and with a more and more perturbed
countenance began to pace the floor. "I did never think to hear of Ferne
House fallen to strange hands! Your father--" He paused before a picture
set in the panelled wall. "Your father loved it well."

"My father was of pure gold," said Sir Mortimer, "but I, his son, am of
iron, or what baser metal there may be. Now I go forth to my kind."

"Oh! in God's name, leave Plato alone!" cried the other. "'Tis not by
that pagan's advice that you divest yourself of house and land!"

"I wanted money," said Ferne, dully.

The man whom ancient friendship had brought that way stopped short in
his pacing to gaze upon the figure standing in the light of the high
window. For what could such an one want money? Courtier, no more
forever; patron of letters, friend of wise men, no more forever; soldier
and sea-king, comrade and leader of brave men never, never again,--what
wanted he so much, what other was his imperative need than this old,
quiet house sunk in the shadows of its age-old trees, grave with a
certain solemnity, touched upon with tragedy, attuned to a sorrowful
patience? For a moment the room and the man who made its core were
blurred to Arden's vision. He walked to the window and stood there,
twirling his mustachios, finally humming to himself the lines of a song.

"That is Sidney's," said Ferne, quietly. "I hear that he does the Queen
noble service.... Well, even in the old times he was ever a length
before me!"

"Why do you need money?" demanded the visitor. "What m