Now it was plain that the unfortunate episode of the lost handkerchief, or rather _found_ one, still rankled deeply in people’s minds. A debt of gratitude was still due to the man who discovered and made known this scandalous piece of information. Affairs in the temple had for centuries been kept too close. A Great High Priest was needed whose actions would be as light as day, and character above reproach. So on the speeches went, all interesting and conclusive, because they all pivoted on one concrete thing, a handkerchief with a rose in the corner. The thing itself was never mentioned, for that would scarce have been diplomacy. Like the Serpent, the handkerchief was hidden out of sight. And so on one little lie, or piece of misunderstanding, one man was gaining a position which clearly was too good for him. So at least thought Rosalie. She studied the faces of the two candidates, and took a sudden fancy to that of Phillipus. He came from a line of uncrowned kings. The speeches were going against him; he bore it with dignity and polite attention to every speaker. At last one speaker, bold with champagne, ran full tilt at the red rag, rose, or whatever else it can be called. He spoke of it openly, and the result was—fatal. For suddenly the frog said to Rosalie, “Speak!” and being obedient, she spoke. She rose to her feet with one deep spot of colour flaming into either cheek, the rest white as snow. A curious silence fell on the room, which had been silent before. “I think there has been a little misunderstanding about the handkerchief,” she said, in a voice that ceased to tremble. “It belongs to me. I never saw the Great High Priest in my life, but I did go into the most sacred place three years ago, with—with a petition, and by mistake I left it there.” Now there was a certain purity in Rosalie’s voice and simplicity in the words that carried conviction. For half a minute silence followed, then Golden Priest Alphonso broke the silent spell. “What right had you going there? You! A woman.” “I—I was very much in earnest.” “Then,” said he harshly and pitilessly, “you are to blame for all the events of the past three years.” Then his voice altered, and he said: “Truth is pleasant. It is a relief to find the late High Priest was better than one thought. But you, what excuse is there for you, to keep silence so long, and let a man go to his grave misunderstood? Fear, I presume, of being found out.” “I knew nothing,” said Rosalie, in a kind of self-defence, for the expression in his eyes under the hypocritical sternness was very sinister. And then someone hissed at the far end of the room, and then someone else. Truly the Serpent was alive, and no golden image either.