I shall never forgive myself for forgetting that Casemate was still at large. I had thought of him twice since my rescue⁠—once as I lay by the brook, awaiting Mansel’s return, and again whilst Mansel was gone to open the castle gate: and each time, before he was back, I had let some other matter thrust Casemate out of my mind.

I have no excuse to offer. It was a monstrous negligence, for which I can never account, though sometimes I strive to believe that Rose Noble’s familiar possessed me to let Mansel down.

We bore him into the lovely bedchamber and laid him upon the King’s bed.

When we would have taken his coat, he shook his head.

“He’s got me all right,” he whispered: “so let me be.”

I tried to say I was sorry, with the tears running down my face.

But he only smiled.

“Rot,” he said gently. “Luck of the battle⁠—that’s all.”

Upon the great bed sat Adèle, steady-eyed as ever, but very pale. She might have been Eve, as Milton has pictured her, sitting upon the green bank, looking into the pool. Her left arm propped her, and she was sitting sideways, after the way of a child: one ring of the broken handcuffs was still about her slim leg. Her hand was in Mansel’s, and their two hands lay in her lap: her beautiful head was bowed, and her eyes never left the eyes of the man she loved.

On his other side lay Tester, close up against his lord. Mansel’s left hand was upon him; but, though, I think, he would have licked it, the poor scrap never moved, but lay as still as an image, with his chin on his little paws and his eyes upon Mansel’s face.

If the others came and went, I did not notice them; and, after a little, I found the windows open and the doors of the chamber shut.

“Punter and Bunch,” said Mansel. “Search them for money and take every penny they’ve got. Go to Innsbruck and buy them two tickets for London. Give them these and drop them outside the town. Someone must watch them in and see that they go. And the caretakers must be dealt with. Perhaps the ‘doctor’ will help. It shouldn’t be very hard to stop their mouths. But try and mop everything up before you go.”

I could only nod: and, when he had seen me do this, he closed his eyes.

If he suffered, he never showed it. Indeed, he seemed well content. And, when Adèle stooped to kiss him, a light that was not of this world came into his eyes.

Once I made to rise and leave them, but, interpreting my movement, Mansel lifted his hand and bade me stay.

So we three waited together, as we had waited together the day before, but this time under a shadow which would not pass.⁠ ⁠…

My eyes stole round the room.

The chamber was full of light, and a broad sash of sunshine was lying athwart the wall. The black oak, the gold and the crimson feasted the eye. The tapestries beckoned into the glades they pictured, and the four men-at-arms about the bed insisted upon the presence they had been set to keep. All I can say is that the presence was there. For once Fate had not bungled, but had laid a king upon a king’s bed to die.

Then I thought of Maximilian and of the exquisite surname which he had won, and at last I saw the writing which had been all the time upon the wall.

Destiny will be served. For more than four hundred years that room had been swept and garnished, had stood ever ready and waiting for “The Last of the Knights.” Jonathan Mansel, Gentleman, had come into his own.

My eyes returned to the bed⁠—to read as dreadful a message as ever I saw.

We had drawn the coverlet, before we had laid him down, exposing a silken quilt that had, I think, once been white, but was now yellow with age. Upon this there was now a great bloodstain, very slowly spreading about his hips.

The terrible sight shocked me, and I covered my eyes.

Adèle was speaking.

“Can we do nothing, my darling? No single thing?”

Very gently he shook his head.

“If we were in London,” he murmured, “they might have a shot: but I’m very comfortable, and it’s a great relief to know that we’re out of the wood.”

A dry sob shook Adèle.

“Another wood’s coming, Jonah: it’s very near: I must go into that alone⁠—and there aren’t any leaves on the trees.”

Mansel smiled very tenderly.

“The spring’s in your heart, my darling. The trees will break at your coming, and the wood will become your bower.”

Adèle shook her lovely head.

“Ah, Jonah, I’ve no heart left. If we could have gone in together, I wouldn’t have cared: but it’s⁠ ⁠… so dreadful, Jonah⁠ ⁠… to face it alone.”

“Hush, my darling. William will see you through. Think only how rich you made me, that I’m going laden with a treasure which no Customs can take away. Remembering that, my lady, how can you mourn? See what a tide I’m taking. It’s never been half so high in all my life. I’m going out on the very full of the flood, and the ebb that might have hurt me will never run.”

“It’s our tide you’re taking, Jonah⁠—our wonderful, shining tide. And I’ve got to stand on the shore and see it go down. I could have borne it with you. It never would have fallen, so long as you were beside me⁠—to share our lovely secret and teach me to play the game.”

For the first time a troubled look came into his face.

“It’s better like this, my sweet. We might have slipped and fallen, or⁠—”

“Never,” sobbed Adèle. “You know it. Not if Boy were to live for fifty years. You love me, and that’s enough. Your arms have been about me, and I’ve kissed your blessed lips, and I’d have lived on that memory⁠—”

“Live on it still, my queen. Do me that matchless honour. Lift up the heart I touched, because I touched it, the eyes I kissed, because a man knelt and looked up and saw himself in them.”

“Oh, Jonah, if love could do it, it should be done. But it’s strength alone that can help me, and all my strength is in you. You don’t know your strength, my darling. You carry so lightly what no other man could lift. We’ve always leaned on you, Jonah: the first thing I learned of Boy was to lean upon you. When they took me that day by Sava, I knew you’d come. I wasn’t afraid, because I knew you’d find me and pull me out. I wasn’t afraid of Rose Noble⁠—I told him so. I told him he hadn’t an earthly and that, if he took me to Hell, you’d follow me down and break him and carry me back. And I wasn’t afraid to love you and take your love⁠—to play with the fire of Heaven, for I knew I could count on your strength to bring us through. But now⁠ ⁠… you’re going, my darling⁠ ⁠… and I must fend for myself. And I’m lost and beggared and beaten, and⁠—oh, Jonah, I’m terribly afraid.”

Mansel put up a hand and touched her hair.

“I found my strength in your nature, in the light of your steady, brown eyes and the flash of your smile: in your beautiful voice and your laughter and the play of your little hands: in the lisp of your footfalls and, at last, in the brush of your lips⁠ ⁠… You gave me my strength, my darling: and the spirit that lighted my life can light its own. Two days ago in this room you made me a king⁠—of your own sweet will, though Death had his ear to the keyhole, and Terror his eyes on the latch. That’s not the way of fear.”

“But you were with me, Jonah. I tell you, with you to lean on, I knew no fear.”

“A fiction, my beauty, a fiction. You mustn’t bow down to an image that you set up. It wasn’t I that set the stars in your eyes or gave that fine, proud curve to your beautiful mouth. Adèle was a great lady, before ever she heard my name. So lift up your head, in the old familiar way. Look Fate in the eyes, my darling, and he’ll always give you the wall.”

Adèle seemed to brace herself. Then she took his hand and kissed it and held it against her heart.

“I’ll try,” she said quietly. “If Tester will let me, I’ll do what I can to help him; and, as soon as we’ve got our bearings, Tester and I will try.”

I saw the dog’s ears lift, but he never stirred.

“Poor little chap,” said Mansel. “I’m afraid it’ll hit him hard.”

Then he spoke to the scrap and told him that he must look after Adèle and that soon he was to be her dog, “for you see, old fellow,” he murmured, “I’ve got to go away. And it’s not like the other times, for this time⁠ ⁠… I shan’t come back.”

A tremor ran through the dog’s frame, and he gave a little whimper that wrung my heart. As plainly as if he had spoken, he was acknowledging the sentence which the man that he worshipped had passed. Devotion so piteous and so absolute would have drawn tears from any stone, and I was not surprised when beneath this turn of the roller Adèle broke down.

She slipped from the bed to the floor, buried her face in her hands and shook like a leaf.

“I can’t face it,” she said wildly. “Three days ago I could have done it, but now it’s too late. Two days ago the face of my world was changed. We changed it together, Jonah, you and I. But, when we changed it, we set a yoke on our necks.⁠ ⁠… I wouldn’t go back for fifty million worlds⁠—our yoke’s my pride and glory, the loveliest jewel that ever a woman wore. They were going to tattoo me, Jonah⁠—to write your name on my back. I wish to God they’d done it: but it wouldn’t have been the same as the yoke we put on together two days ago. And now I’ve got to carry⁠ ⁠… our yoke⁠ ⁠… alone.⁠ ⁠… Between us, its weight was nothing. It had no weight. Day and night I’d have worn it, and life would have been the lighter because it was there. But alone, Jonah⁠ ⁠… alone. How can I lift up my head, with a millstone about my neck? How can I lift up my heart, when my fellow is gone?”

Great beads of sweat were standing on Mansel’s brow: but his voice, though low, was steady as it had ever been.

“ ‘The one shall be taken,’ ” he said, “ ‘and the other left.’ That is the private touchstone of the great Alchemist himself. Only the greatest hearts come to be put to such a shining proof, and those that pass it, my lady, emerge so tempered that no blow can ever dent them and they can turn the edge of any sorrow.”

Adèle dragged herself up and knelt to the bed: as she leaned over blindly, Mansel put his arm round her neck.⁠ ⁠…

And then, for a while, there was silence, and the whisper of the water, taking its leap from the terrace, was all the sound we heard.

Tester lifted his head and looked at the wall.

At first I could hear nothing: then came a step in the passage, and, an instant later, Hanbury opened the door.

As he looked at the bed⁠—

“Ah, George,” said Mansel, and smiled.

Hanbury glanced behind him, and a tall, fresh-faced man came into the room.

“This is Dr. Buchinger,” said George. “He is an Innsbruck surgeon, who happened to be at Lass.”

The other bowed to Adèle: then he stepped to the bed.

I was just in time to catch Tester, who would have flown at his throat, but the surgeon ignored the flurry and, frowning a little at the bloodstain upon the quilt, stooped to set his fingers on Mansel’s wrist.

There was a breathless silence.

Then he took a case from his pocket and straightened his back.

“I must give an injection,” he said. “Please see if the room is ready and bring a shutter or something on which you may carry him in.”

“You see,” said George, “it was like this. I knew it was a chance in a million, but there was the car waiting, and the bookseller ready to help. I would have gone to Innsbruck, for I hadn’t much hope of Lass. ‘Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?’ But my father’s a doctor, you know, and I knew we were up against time⁠—haemorrhage. You don’t die of the wound: you die of the loss of blood. I tell you, I had next to no hope.⁠ ⁠…

“All the way I kept wondering how I could smother the rumours my action was going to start. Call in a doctor, and you always open the sluice. When I thought of the flood behind, my foot went out to the brake. It amounted to this⁠—I was putting all our shirts on the rankest outsider that ever was saddled up. Then I thought of the shock his death would be to Adèle and the awful look in your face as we carried him in.⁠ ⁠…

“By the time we ran into Lass, I had a half-baked plan.

“We drove to the local surgeon’s. His door was open and, by the grace of God, he was just showing Buchinger out. Then I made a most happy mistake. I took Buchinger for the local, and the local for Buchinger’s man. Before the bookseller could stop me, I’d asked if he could speak English, and, when he said ‘yes,’ I dragged him into the house and started in. There was no time for finesse: my only card was the money, so I jolly well bunged it in. I said if he’d do the case, we’d pay him a thousand pounds⁠—and another four thousand pounds three months from today, provided we’d reason to think that he’d held his tongue. Then I took out the wallet that Mansel keeps in the car and laid the notes on the table before his eyes. He seemed rather staggered and looked at me very hard. Then the bookseller put in his oar. ‘I will give you my word,’ he said, ‘that there is nothing to fear. This gentleman is saving a lady’s name.’ That seemed to reassure Buchinger, but still he wouldn’t say ‘yes.’

“ ‘Dr. Rachel must help me,’ he said, and looked at the wallah that I had thought was his man.

“Then I saw my mistake and that he must be another and bigger pot.

“ ‘By all means,’ said I, and added two hundred and fifty to what there was on the board.

“The two of them looked at the notes.

“Then Rachel made a noise like a siphon and picked his up.⁠ ⁠…

“Well, he has a kind of clinic attached to his house. All the stuff for an operation was ready to hand. Without Buchinger, he’d have been hopeless⁠—forgotten from A to Z. But Buchinger knows his job. He called for paper and pencil and made out a list. When he’d done, he checked it over: then he gave it to Rachel and told him to ‘get those things into the car.’ Five minutes later we picked him up at a chemist’s two streets away.”

“You’ve saved his life,” said I.

“That remains to be seen,” said George. “But, if I have, it’s pure fluke. Buchinger was leaving the house to catch his train. He was actually on the doorstep. And Rachel could no more have done it than you or I. Clever enough, no doubt: but take him out of his groove, and he loses his mind.”

This estimate, if not exact, was unpleasantly near the truth. As Rachel was bidden, he did⁠—with an excellent grace: but the poor man’s composure was gone, and his efforts to bring it to heel were as obvious as they were vain. This made us all fear for his discretion; but the bookseller presently insisted that the sight of familiar surroundings would send this disorder away and that, once he was back in his province, we could count upon his prudence as upon that of a sage.

This comforted us, for there was much to be done, and our cup of anxiety was full.

When the operation was over, Buchinger told us plainly that, so far from his life being saved, Mansel might die any minute during the next three days.

“When he thought he was dying,” he said, “he was perfectly right. He was dying⁠—and dying fast. He is now no longer dying: Dr. Rachel and I have stopped that. But he is standing still⁠—on the very edge of death. And there we must try to keep him, for, nothing that I can do can draw him back. If he should live for three days, he will himself draw back: and then a medical student could make him well. But if, before then, he slips⁠—that is the end.

“I shall, of course, stay here. As luck will have it, my holiday does not end for another six days. But Dr. Rachel must go. You will fetch him again this evening, when he will bring my things and some drugs that I want. And, if you will keep your secret, I think I should drive into Lass by some indirect way. Of course, you should have a nurse⁠—two nurses. But women would talk. Only, I fear for the health of that beautiful girl.⁠ ⁠…”

We drew what cheer we could from these solemn words and, since Adèle was with Mansel, turned with relief to the business of setting our house in order as best we might.

Rose Noble lay still unburied, for Carson and Bell had left him and rushed to the castle directly they heard the shot, and, finding the truth so dreadful, had rightly stayed within call. And, since another grave had now to be dug, we put these two matters in train before anything else.

The surgeons had not seen Casemate for, while George was gone for a doctor, the servants had taken the body into the Dining-room. For this I was thankful, for to help a man out of a trespass is one thing, but to stand accessory to homicide is, as they say, a different pair of shoes.

And here I may say that, if Rachel was too much bemused, Buchinger was far too wary to ask any questions at all: he must have suspected that Mansel’s was not the only blood that had been shed, but he saw the danger of knowledge and held his peace.

When he had returned to the sickroom and George had gone off with Rachel, to drive him to Lass, we carried Casemate’s body down to the second car, and Bell and Rowley and I drove up to the wood. And there we laid the fellow to such rest as a murderer has: and I trust he will lie undisturbed for the rest of our days, for, do what we would, we could not withdraw my knife, but were forced to bury the dead with this document fast in his back.

Until these grim rites were over, I could not rest, for, if dead men can tell no tales, a corpse can speak for itself, and I was determined to take no chances at all. George, who was very soon back, held the same view, and the four of us laboured like fury, until the business was done.

When we left the thicket, we took with us Punter and Bunch and cast them into the kitchen which they had turned into a gaol. When they saw their quarters, the two looked ready to burst: but, if they disliked their fortune, they had only themselves to thank. I do not suppose that hospitality was ever shown so grudgingly or taken so ill, but, though we hated their presence, we thought it wise not to enlarge them until we should leave the castle for good and all.

We then set the caretakers free.

As may be believed, these were half dead of apprehension. Indeed, their one idea was to fly the place, and, but for the bookseller, whom they had known for some years, we should have had no choice but to detain them by force.

Rose Noble, of course, had “bought” them: and, once he was fairly installed, they could not go back. They could not betray his presence, without disclosing that they had betrayed their trust, and obeyed in fear and trembling their new and terrible lord. They had in the end made up their minds to vanish, but he had divined their intention and, coming upon them, whilst they were packing some traps, had cuffed their right feet together and locked them into their room. In this miserable state we found them, full of lamentation and the expectation of death and entirely persuaded that, even if they were saved, as the result of their bondage they would be lame for life. Indeed, when we cut the links, they both declared that they could not possibly walk, that the iron had set up gangrene and other fainthearted rubbish that wearied us all. With infinite patience, however, the bookseller took them to task, and, when he had at last convinced them that they were whole, made it plain that they still had a chance of avoiding such penalties as they had justly earned. At this, they pricked up their ears, and within the hour it was settled that we would repair such damage as might have been done to the house and would hold our tongues, provided they served us truly so long as we stayed. The terms were not to their liking, but, since beggars cannot be choosers, they had to agree, and the woman cooked us some luncheon that very day.

When George drove to Lass, to seek Rachel, that afternoon, he fetched from the inn what few belongings we had left there against our return, and, giving out that Mansel had crushed his foot and lay in a peasant’s cabin in danger of losing his leg, sowed the seed of a story for Rachel to tell. Him we took back to a junction some miles below Lass and promised to meet him there at ten the next day.

The bookseller flatly refused to let us convey him at all, maintaining, that it was to our interest that he should go as he came and so be forearmed to affirm that, if there was trouble abroad, it was not at the Castle of Gath. His housekeeper, a notorious gossip, was aware that he had intended to visit the castle that day: any perilous rumours, therefore, were sure to be brought straight to him, and, if he was able to disclaim an acquaintance with strife, he would be able to crush them once for all. His one appearance in the car could be explained well enough: Hanbury had met him at the crossroads, in some distress, and he had offered to show him the surgeon’s house.

The debt we owe to that man can never be paid. He had a heart of gold. Most brave, discreet and understanding, he threw himself into our venture, as though it had been his own, and would, I think, have cheerfully gone to the stake, rather than have spoken one word to our embarrassment. We had purchased the surgeons’ silence, as well as their skill: the caretakers went in fear: but the bookseller held his tongue and gave of the best he had because he liked us and without, I am sure, any thought of any reward.

By dusk some sort of order had been set up. Rooms had been cleaned and prepared for Buchinger and Adèle; and each of us had his quarters and his particular charge.

That night a note went to Poganec.

I am free and safe and sound⁠—at a terrible cost. Jonah has been wounded and lies at the point of death.

And there he lay for three days, as Buchinger had said, in the room that Adèle had once used in the southwest tower.

Then the mists parted, and they said he would live.

“I think,” said Buchinger, “that he will recover fast. If all goes well, he can leave his bed in a fortnight, and in another week you may drive him home. But not before that. Tomorrow morning I shall return to Innsbruck, but shall visit him twice in each week until he is well. No doubt you will kindly convey me in one of your cars. Dr. Rachel must still attend him twice in the day: but, when a week has gone by, once in the day will do. I have told Miss Adèle that now his servant may very well take the night watch, and, if you do not want another patient upon your hands, I recommend you to insist that this is done.”

Here something touched his leg, and we both looked down to see Tester wagging his tail.

“Ah, you monkey. Yes, that is all very well. I come to save your master, and you fly in my face. You are carried off, breathing threatenings and thirsty to drink my blood. And now I have done it in your teeth, I am your very good friend and must be noticed and honoured⁠—”

Tester rolled over and put his paws in the air: and, when the surgeon stooped, jumped up to lick his face.

I never saw the dog so use any other stranger, and he would not look at Rachel, for all his zeal. With this blunt discernment all his conduct was of a piece. We had set a box for him in the “gallery of stone,” and there he had lain, like a mouse, since the day on which Mansel was hit, never going further than the terrace, the door to which stood open, for him to use. He never sought to enter the sickroom, but always rose and listened, whenever the door was opened by day or night, and anxiously scanned the faces of such as went. So for those three black days. After that he went out and about and took his ease and only kept his box when we went to bed. Then came the day when Mansel asked for him and, when I went to the door, to go and find him, there he was, standing on the threshold, with one paw raised and his eyes seeking confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.

I do not seek to magnify his instinct, but, well as we knew him, these things astonished us all, and, if speech was denied him, he had, I think, another and finer faculty.

There seemed little doubt that, so far, our secret was safe. We drew our supplies, not from Lass, but from towns in other directions from twenty to fifty miles off: since the day of Mansel’s wounding, we had not been seen in Lass, and we fetched and carried Rachel by devious ways: when we left the drive, we did so with great circumspection, the castle gates were kept shut, and no lights were shown in the building or on the cars.

George had visited Poganec, had told the most of our story and had explained our case. The question of the Pleydells’ coming had naturally arisen at once, but, after a while, they determined to stay where they were. Captain Pleydell could not be moved, because of his leg: and the others decided that, till Mansel was in a condition to be not only prepared for their coming, but satisfied that this move was entailing no risk, their appearance would only concern him and would do no manner of good. So soon, however, as Mansel began to mend, we were to fetch Daphne Pleydell, while it was dark, to spend a day in the castle and go back the following night: a day or so later Major Pleydell would come, and, when these two visits were over, Adèle would visit her husband in just the same way.

That all this precaution was needful, there is no doubt. Lass was big with rumour, and, though much of the gossip was wild, we were astounded to find how close some approached the truth.

Rachel maintained his story that Mansel had crushed his leg, and the bookseller quietly diverted suspicion from Gath; but neither could shut the eyes or stop the ears of a town whose sleep was seldom broken by anything more stirring than a chimney afire or an instance of petty theft.

The bookseller wrote to us daily, always directing his letter to a different village or town, from which we posted our answer, telling how Mansel did.

I cannot do better than make the first letter he wrote us speak for itself.

Sirs,

You shall please take great cares. Yours fetchings of Dr. Rachel cannot be too secretly made. It is said here that a priest is led into the mountains and there destroyed: that one man has met him to appointment in a house of the alley over against my shop and would lead him into the mountains, where three more men were lying ready to kill: that the priest was to seek a woman who had his love and was not of her own mind because she loved him so dearly: that the woman is lying still in his murderer’s arms and that these had a great motorcar in which they drove themselves: that such car is now in Welsa, under the village’s police, who wait for it to be demanded, but all in vain, because the murderers are afraid: that you came after the priest, to save his life, and are encamped in the mountains until the murderers shall move: that they are shut themselves in one of the castles, but you do not know which, and, because of your friend’s misadventure, you are at a deadlock. And other things was said, that the woman wears the clothes of a man, that the priest is hanged to death, and many other untruths: but those of above will show upon you how clean you must pick your way.

All this, I learn, was said for two or three days, but was not come to my ears, because I sit still with my books: but, when I return from Gath, I find myself well awaited, and I am glad I was ready with my tale.

I trust and believe your friend is surviving his wound.

Still the days went by, and no one troubled us: the visits were paid, and the world seemed none the wiser: our curious heritage became a pleasant habit: and Mansel grew steadily better under the love of Adèle.

I was sitting on the terrace one morning, on a cushion of one of the cars, looking at the exquisite prospect and finding much virtue in sloth, when a hand came to rest upon my shoulder, and there was Adèle.

Care and her vigil had left her a little pale, but this only gave her beauty a delicate look which suited it very well.

Without a word, she sat herself down beside me, propped herself on an arm and tilted her chin.

“Have you drunk your milk?” said I.

“Yes,” said Adèle. “Beautiful, fragrant milk⁠—straight from the cow. Who travelled all night to get it⁠—and drinks canned milk himself?”

“George Hanbury,” said I.

Adèle sighed.

“I wonder,” she said, “I wonder if ever a woman was so well served.”

“You must thank yourself,” said I.

“So Jonah says,” said Adèle: “but I can’t see why.”

“You must take our word,” said I, “for it’s gospel truth.”

And so it was. Without any thought of favour, we delighted to serve Adèle. I am not quite certain why. It was not because she was more bodily and mentally attractive than any girl that I have ever seen: it was not because of her dignity or because of her natural grace. She had a way with her. This was a royal way, and⁠—it was the way of a child. She was full-grown, she was worldly, she was wise: but, with it all, she had never lost that golden flush of childhood which makes its way directly into the hardest heart. I have often wondered how Rose Noble could have used her so harshly, but I think that he had no heart, and the others, I suppose, had no choice but to follow his monstrous lead.

“Do you remember,” she said, “a question you asked me not very long ago?”

“Yes,” said I. “ ‘What about going back?’ ”

She nodded.

“That’s right. I think you saw better than I how very hard it would be. It would have been⁠—awfully hard. But Fate’s very wise. They say God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. I’m sure He does⁠—in His mysterious way. I’ve often wondered how such a thing could be done: but now I know. So soon as the lamb is shorn, He lets the wind blow for a moment with ice in its breath: and that moment’s so dreadful that ever after that the lamb doesn’t feel the wind.⁠ ⁠… And that’s our case. It would have been awfully hard. But that half-hour was so dreadful that now the rest seems easy, and I’m not a bit afraid. It’s the old question of contrast. I’ve lifted the load that I might have had to carry. It crushed me⁠—for half an hour. And then for three days and nights I stood waiting to know my fate.” She drew a deep breath. “Can you wonder, William, that, after that experience, the future weighs no more than this necklace around my neck?”

“Thank God for that, Adèle.”

For a little while she sat silent, smiling into the distance as though there were something there which I could not see.

“I’m very lucky,” she said. “My love-affair’s been so perfect⁠—from first to last. I was taken because he loved me, and then he came in his strength, to pull me out. I shared the rough with him; and, whilst we were under the shadow, he slept with his head in my lap: when he was hurt, I was there; and alone I’ve had the glory of helping him back to life. And it’s all been out of the world: we’ve never had to use the back stairs, or whisper, or put out the light. There’s been nothing sordid about it, and nothing cheap. And, when it’s finished, it’ll go, like a painting, into the quiet gallery of which you and he and I have the only keys.”

“I shall often walk there, Adèle.”

She nodded gravely.

“I like to think that you will.”

There was another silence.

Presently she knitted her brows.

“I’m upset about Boy,” she said. “You can’t get away from the fact that I’m letting him down. He is so good to me, and I love him so much. He’s so proud of me and of Jonah, and he plays such a splendid game. When you took me to Poganec, he was so glad to see me, but they hadn’t told him I was coming, because they knew he’d say that I mustn’t leave Jonah’s side. You can’t beat that, can you?”

“As I live,” said I, “I believe that he’d understand. Of course, you can’t possibly tell him: but, if you did, I believe that he’d understand. So don’t be upset, Adèle. It was nobody’s fault. It was the most natural thing that ever happened.”

Adèle turned a glowing face.

“William, tell me. All the world would say that Jonah and I were doing a rotten thing. How is it you don’t think so? How is it you understand?”

“There’s no one like him,” said I.

“I know, but⁠—”

“And, then⁠—there’s no one like you.”

“Oh, William.⁠ ⁠…”

“The page and the lady,” said I. “It’s often happened before. And I shall survive.” I rose to my feet. “But that, I think, is the reason why I understand. I can look at him with your eyes, and I can see you with his, and⁠—well, Kings and Queens go together, and, oh, my dear, I’m so glad I shall have that key.”

Adèle put out a slim hand, and I lifted her up.

I would have loosed her fingers, but she left them in mine.

“You’re a lot like him,” she said quietly. “Rowley told me who fetched the milk.”

Then she put her hand to my lips.

On the last day we spent at the castle, the bookseller came, by arrangement, to bid us “goodbye.”

We made much of him, as was natural, but, when we had talked for a while and he had broken his fast, he begged us to let him ramble from room to room, “for my great desire,” he said, “was to make my guide pages more full, and never again shall I have an occasion like this.”

So we showed him the trick of the table⁠—which afforded him infinite delight⁠—and then let him go his own way, to discover and speculate to his heart’s content. Ere it was sundown, he had a great book full of notes, and his voice was trembling with pleasure as he told over his hoard.

Then Mansel took him apart and did the delicate business of making him rich. I do not know what he said or how he said it, but, when it was over, the poor old fellow was quite unable to speak, and, though he shook hands with us all a number of times, and though George and I went with him as far as the porch, he never once opened his mouth, until the wicket stood open and he was about to step out.

Then⁠—

“Sirs,” he said shakily, “to some friendships there is no farewells.”

Then he clapped his hat on his head and went his way.

We watched him pass up the spur, but, though we stood ready to wave, he never looked back, and at last the wood swallowed him up and we saw him no more.

When the dusk came in, George, with Bell and Rowley, went off with Punter and Bunch, to take them to Innsbruck, purchase their tickets for London and see them go.

The latter gave no trouble, comported themselves most humbly and touched their hats to their warders, if ever they spoke. Such piety suggested that their recent bodily affliction had chastened their souls; but Rowley, who was watching to see that they took the train, reported that, when they did so, Punter was burdened with a suitcase and Bunch with a dressing-bag, and, since, when they left the car, they had had no luggage and neither had upon him the price of a glass of beer, I fear that they were incorrigible and that honesty was, so to speak, beyond their element.

George was not to return to the castle, but to meet us at midnight at a point between Lass and Villach, some twenty miles from the hog’s back from which we had scanned the country a month before. So, when we had dined and the terrier had had his supper, Carson and Tester and I went the rounds for the last time.

No sign of our occupation was anywhere to be seen.

The damage we had done in the antechamber had been repaired, the bullet-holes in the Dining-room had been stopped and such window-glass as was broken had been replaced. The rooms had all been cleaned, the floors shone like glass, the beds had been stripped: the caretakers had such linen as had been used, and this the woman would wash and return to store: what rubbish and litter there was had been taken the night before and sunk in a river we knew of ten miles away.

When we had finished our inspection and found all well, I sent Carson down, with Tester, to finish loading the Rolls, and walked by myself on the roof for half an hour.

The night was lovely, and, though October was in, the air was as still and gentle as that of a summer’s eve. A fine moon was riding a cloudless sky and shedding enough pale light to lend the towers and bulwarks a fanciful air and all the world I could see the look of a fairytale.

I do not believe in Enchantment: but, if there be such a thing, it stood at my shoulder that evening upon the ramparts of Gath. Castle, spur and thicket, mountains and forests and the flash of the water below seemed all “such stuff as dreams are made on,” and I could not shake off the feeling that we were about to quit a fantastic country which, search for it as we might, we never should see again.

When it was ten o’clock, I made my way to the courtyard. There all was in order: what luggage we had was in place, and the rugs and cushions for Mansel were piled in the back of the car.

Then I went to the terrace, as they had asked me to do, to tell Adèle and Mansel that it was time to be gone.

They had left the chairs, set for them, and were standing together up to the balustrade: his arm was about her, and her head was against his shoulder, and the two threw a single shadow upon the flags.

For a moment I stood, irresolute, at the head of the steps. Then I went heavily down.⁠ ⁠…

They did not turn at my coming. Only Adèle stretched out a little hand.

I came and stood beside her, and her arm went about my shoulders and held me close.

So we stood, all three together, looking unto the hills.⁠ ⁠…

Mansel was speaking.

“The very elements respect you,” he said. “Was ever a night so lovely, to round a dream?”

“Our dream,” breathed Adèle. “Our beautiful, shining dream. You gave it us, darling. By keeping my letters, you gave it. And your strength has been its glory, your gentleness its life.”

“You wrote the letters,” said Mansel. “Because of that, I loved them so very much. I never thought I should burn them.⁠ ⁠… But then I never thought that, in their place you would give me something⁠—something that won’t go into words, Adèle, that all the ages must envy me, and that no thieves can steal.”

Adèle’s arm left my shoulders and came to rest upon his.

“Oh, Jonah⁠—my love, my darling.”

Mansel held her close, looking down on her upturned face.

“I love you,” he said. “I love the stars in your eyes and the breath of your lips. I love your hair and your temples and the pride of your exquisite mouth. I love all your peerless beauty. But, most of all, my queen, I love your darling nature and the finest, bravest heart that ever closed a book at the end of one golden chapter⁠—and put it back on the shelf.”

He kissed her steadily, and I covered my eyes.⁠ ⁠…

Adèle turned to me and put her arms round my neck.

“Dear William,” she said, “you saw the beginning, and now you see the end. You’ve been with us in light and in shadow: you’ve given us freely the best that a man can give: and I can only tell you that the love that you have shown us is part and parcel of our dream.”

With that, she put up her lips to be kissed, like a little child, and I kissed them a little fearfully, for my clay is common, but she and Mansel were spirits of another sort.

Then she returned to her lover, and I left them to the rustle of the water and the pale splendour of the moonlight and the motionless plumage of the opposing hills.⁠ ⁠…

Very soon they came up to the “gallery of stone”: and I shut the door behind them and followed them down to the courtyard, without a word.

Five minutes later the Rolls stole up the spur and into the wood.

On the following day George Hanbury and I would have returned to Villach, if not to Town: but this Mansel would not hear of, and, when he discovered our proposal, Adèle and his cousins rose up in pleasant indignation against our leaving their roof.

We could not withstand such goodwill, but, while George was glad to give way, I was reluctant, and, indeed, I shrank from the visit, I think, with cause.

I need have had no fear.

We stayed at Poganec until October was old: every day was of summer, and, though the leaves changed colour, they did not begin to fall. But things other than the season were cordial, and the weeks I had dreaded so turned to my relief that, when we drove back to London, I was in higher feather than I had been for months.

Adèle and Mansel took up the thread of life as though they had never let it fall. If ever they made believe, I never saw it: and, when I was alone with either, neither by word nor look was any reference made to what had passed between them at the Castle of Gath. Indeed their passionate adventure might never have been. The old, easy relation was back in its seat: they were content⁠—happy, for all the world to see: they avoided no ground, because to them it was tender: where others’ fancy took them, thither they went, riding so straight and unconcernedly that I, behind them, caught something of their courage and found the formidable fences of no account.

I think this will show how very fine was their temper, how brave and notable their style. Handsome in all they did, in this supreme ordeal they gave full measure, and I like to think that with that same full measure it shall one day be measured to them again.

Not for some days did I remember that we had never replaced the stone slab which had sealed the entrance to the Closet from the archway below.

This will be found one day, where it lies beneath the King’s bed: and one day the coverlet will be drawn, and men will find the bloodstain upon the quilt.

What curious interest will not these things arouse? The name of Maximilian will be in every mouth. Old annals will be reread, old narratives revised and legends brought to bed of fine new tales of wrath and mischief and murder saved or done. And yet I cannot think that, for all their bravery, they will compare with the truth.

This I am never weary of recalling, and many a winter’s night I have sat at Maintenance, looking into the fire of logs and giving my memory rein.

Our desperate drive to Poganec, and the red of Mansel’s taillight flicking into and out of sight: the roar of the waterfall, and the high-pitched laugh of the rogue that played with Mansel and lost his game: my perilous journey upon the roof of the car, and the first, stupendous survey of the Castle of Gath: our stealthy entry into the King’s Closet, the ominous creak of the floorboard and then the frantic pounding upon the door: Rose Noble at the head of the table, and Mansel’s lightning move, and the crash of the shots: our vigil by the open window, and the enemy’s hideous laughter floating into the night: Casemate’s halting footfalls, and Mansel asprawl upon the terrace, with the rope by his side: and, then, the death of Rose Noble, and Mansel on his knees in the passage, with Adèle, aghast and piteous, holding him up.⁠ ⁠…

The remembrance of these things is precious to me, for I had my part in them, and the tapestry they make belongs to that quiet gallery of which Mansel and Adèle and I have the only keys.