But they were very beautiful photographs--the most beautiful that he had ever seen, and as each, in its turn, was shown for a moment his eyes met hers and his mouth almost against his will, smiled. His hand too was very near the silk of her dress. If he moved it a very little more then they would touch. He felt that if that happened the room would immediately burst into flame, the air was so charged with the breathless tension; but he watched the little space of air between his fingers and the black silk and his hand did not move. They were all very silent as she turned the photographs over and there were no sounds but the sharp crackling of the fire as it burst into little spurts of flame, the noise that her hand made on the silk of her dress as she turned each picture and the little mutterings of Robin in his corner as he talked to his Toby. Peter had never seen anything like this photography. The man had used his medium as delicately as though he had drawn every line. Things stood out--castles, a hill, trees, running water, a shining road--and behind them there was darkness and mystery. Suddenly Peter cried out: “Oh! that!” he said. It was the photograph of a great statue standing on a hill that overlooked a river. That was all that could be seen--the background was dark and vague, it was the statue of a man who rode a lion. The lion was of enormous size and struggling to be free, but the man, naked, with his utmost energy, his back set, his arms stiff, had it in control, but only just in control ... his face was terrible in the agony of his struggle and that struggle had lasted for a great period of time ... but at length, when all but defeated, he had mastered his beast. “Ah that!” Miss Rossiter held it up that Norah Monogue might see it better. “That is on a hill outside a little town in Bavaria. They put it up to a Herr Drexter who had done something, saved their town from riot I think. It's a fine thing, isn't it, and I think it so clever of them to have made him middle-aged with all the marks of the struggle about him--those scars, his face--so that you can see that it's all been tremendous--” Peter spoke very slowly--“I'd give anything to see that!” he said. “Well, it's in Bavaria; I wonder that it isn't better known. But funnily enough the people that were with me at the time didn't like it; it was only afterwards, when I showed them the photograph that they saw that there might have been ... aren't people funny?” she ended abruptly, appealing to him with a kind of freemasonry against the world. But, still bending his brows upon it he said insistently-- “Tell me more about it--the place--everything--” “There isn't really anything to tell; it's only a very ordinary, very beautiful, little German town. There are many orchards and this forest at the back of it and the river running through it--little cobbled streets and bridges over the river. And then, outside, this great statue on the hill--”