“_He_ will never give you the secret, you may depend upon it. Mr Barringcourt is not your friend; remember you parted quarrelling twenty-five years since.” “But he’s forgotten that, and so have I.” “Oh no, he has not forgotten. You hunted down, in bigotry and high-handedness, a girl who was peculiarly his property. He is not so easy-going as to forgive you that.” “Then why should he appear so pleased to see me?” “Because, being your worst, your subtlest enemy, he perceives you are nothing but a wreck of what you used to be.” The deep, dull colour of anger rose in the High Priest’s face. “He may be mistaken in that, as he has been in other things.” “How will you prove it to him?” “Advise me.” “Then you remember the girl we met this morning?” “Sacred Serpent! how you do harp on women!” “Sacred Serpent! were you born a man or a stone?” “Go on. Go on with your advice.” “You remember the girl this morning?” “I remember her, and I must say I felt her--her fascination--till--till she showed such unmannerly temper before us all. Passion of any sort in a woman is fatal to beauty both of mind and body.” Now St Armand, as a rule, had great patience with his--his followers until they were well disciplined and broken in to obedience. But occasionally he was known to laugh long and heartily, especially when they passed some wise remark. And he laughed now. He laughed so long and so genuinely, that the High Priest began to feel uncomfortable, and thought over what he had said once more, but could find no fault with it. “Be careful, Alphonso! Soon they’ll be christening you the great High Hypocrite, or, worse still, ‘the sleeping mole.’ Women have been developing all kinds of things since you last looked out upon Lucifram with fleshly eyes. However, if you object to temper, Barringcourt doesn’t. He admires the little beggar girl.” The stray shot hit. “Pardon me, you’re wrong. He spoke to her with absolutely no respect.” “Will you get it out of your head once and for all?” said St Armand abruptly; “you’re looking for a _wife_? Meek temper and respectability are insufferable in any other woman. But you’ve given up the beggar girl, and he will step in to gather the plum you’ve let slip so easily through your palsied fingers.” “I have not let her slip.” “Indeed you have. Did you not walk away this morning without one look, one word of farewell? Did he do so? No. His last look was to her, his last smile.” “He does not know her.” “Oh! he is young. He makes friends easily. He has not got the ice of age clinging round him as you. He does not love her, but he will win her, whilst you grow cold--shivering on the brink of passion.” “He shall _not_ win her. She is mine, since I looked into her eyes in the Temple close this morning. He has robbed me of many things--now I look back on it, he has robbed me of many, many things--but he shall not take this last. She shall belong to me--to me alone!” “Are you going now?”