he street, and I stare at one
when I see it in the field. It's a new thing to me and worth
noticing. And it was just the same when he hid in the well. You are
ready to find a well in a place like that; you look for a well, and
so you don't see it. I don't look for it, and therefore I do look at
it."

"It is certainly an idea," said Sir Walter, smiling, "but what about
the balcony? Balconies are occasionally seen in London."

"But not rivers right under them, as if it was in Venice," replied
Wilson.

"It is certainly a new idea," repeated Sir Walter, with something
like respect. He had all the love of the luxurious classes for new
ideas. But he also had a critical faculty, and was inclined to
think, after due reflection, that it was a true idea as well.

Growing dawn had already turned the window panes from black to gray
when Sir Walter got abruptly to his feet. The others rose also,
taking this for a signal that the arrest was to be undertaken. But
their leader stood for a moment in deep thought, as if conscious
that he had come to a parting of the ways.

Suddenly the silence was pierced by a long, wailing cry from the
dark moors outside. The silence that followed it seemed more
startling than the shriek itself, and it lasted until Nolan said,
heavily:

"'Tis the banshee. Somebody is marked for the grave."

His long, large-featured face was as pale as a moon, and it was easy
to remember that he was the only Irishman in the room.

"Well, I know that banshee," said Wilson, cheerfully, "ignorant as
you think I am of these things. I talked to that banshee myself an
hour ago, and I sent that banshee up to the tower and told her to
sing out like that if she could get a glimpse of our friend writing
his proclamation."

"Do you mean that girl Bridget Royce?" asked Morton, drawing his
frosty brows together. "Has she turned king's evidence to that
extent?"

"Yes," answered Wilson. "I know very little of these local things,
you tell me, but I reckon an angry woman is much the same in all
countries."

Nolan, however, seemed still moody and unlike himself. "It's an ugly
noise and an ugly business altogether," he said. "If it's really the
end of Prince Michael it may well be the end of other things as
well. When the spirit is on him he would escape by a ladder of dead
men, and wade through that sea if it were made of blood."

"Is that the real reason of your pious alarms?" asked Wilson, with a
slight sneer.

The