The door opened silently again before long. “Come this way,” said the low, serious voice. The doors swung to behind them. They entered upon a large square hall. It was not brilliantly lighted, and the farther end was dim and scarcely discernible. But every thing was rich and massive, and highly polished. It reminded her in some indescribable way of the temple she had just left. Carved oak chairs, just as those seen in the sacred building, lined the walls, standing round in a perfect square, except where interrupted by some other article of furniture. These chairs seemed to be endless. As Rosalie passed along she became accustomed to the dimness, and noticed from this farther end a spiral staircase ascending to the upper floor. It was built in polished oak, and went round and round in a way that reminded her of the Serpent’s coils. It led to a gallery that overlooked the hall on all sides. Three double glass doors of the same peculiar lustre as the entrance (which made the fourth) led out of this hall, one on each side, one being beyond the staircase. Her companion passed through that door to the left, and she followed him. They came upon a corridor, and stopped before the last door on the left-hand side. Her guide knocked, then opened it. There was no name to give; Rosalie had no tongue to speak, no card to show. Then the door closed again, and she found herself in the presence of the man whom she had come to seek. He was sitting by a table reading. A fire was burning in the hearth near by. A high shaded lamp stood on the ground beside him. The floor was thickly carpeted, the walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, one other door led from the room. The Master looked up as she entered, then got up, pushing the book away. “So you have come,” he said. He came forward and held out his hand. Rosalie, trembling and uncertain, returned the hand-shake, nodding. “What! you cannot speak yet?” She shook her head, but as he was withdrawing his hand she clutched it eagerly, unconscious of anything but this one little sinking straw of hope. This time he looked at her more closely. “What is it?” he asked. She raised her other hand to her throat and mouth, then pointed to him, her eyes full on his face. “I’m not the Serpent,” he answered, and he shook his head and tried to disengage his hand. But Rosalie’s fingers tightened with a fierceness and determination altogether foreign to her. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashed angrily; she gave one little imperious stamp with her foot. The Master looked at her and smiled—a smile that travelled from his eyes to the corners of his mouth. “I see. You do not intend to go till I have performed an—an impossibility?” Rosalie nodded in all seriousness. “It is the gift of speech you’re wanting?” She nodded. “It’s very dangerous; leads people into all kinds of indiscretions.” She shook her head vehemently. “You think you differ from the commonality?”