“You will not pity me; how, then, can I pity myself?” “You were born to greatness; why should I pity the great? I pity him, but your weakness I despise as quite unworthy of you. You are taking life too seriously. It’s nothing but a game, a plaything, at the best.” And suddenly he moved across to her, and in listening to the strong persuasive voice, low-pitched and softly, she forgot the little man had disappeared, the presence near to hers but half disguised. The fascination of that powerful presence drew her magnetically--the strong arm round her, the shadows encircling them, giving her new life. Marigold sat up, her white dress gleaming, her golden hair shining, her wondrous eyes sparkling in--what was the light? Nothing on Lucifram. And the old childish merriment and laughter came bubbling back to the parted lips, coral and pearl of exquisite beauty. And recklessly, not understanding, she held out her one disengaged hand, and now both of hers were hidden in his--the strong shadowy hands holding the white ones. “You can afford to be kind to him, Marigold.” No answer. “Not only that, but there is always a certain stimulus in love-making. It will relieve the monotony of the few months left you here on Lucifram.” No answer. “And Mr Barringcourt has got so accustomed to your devotion, given so silently, that he’ll be quite jealous.” And suddenly Marigold drew herself out of his arms, and stood up laughing. “Yes, I’ll come, if you can guarantee that he won’t be mopey, and grumpy, and talking of his ailments all the time. I’ll come to-night. I’m tired of being good. I do get deadly tired of it every now and then; no one knows the struggle that it is. And, after all, I must amuse myself. Being love-sick is so monotonous.” CHAPTER XXVII Shortly afterwards St Armand went back to the High Priest’s Palace, and, with a certain quiet power he had of ordering things to his own liking without anybody being aware of it, he arranged that all personal attendants and others should be dismissed for the night. He gave them to understand that he himself would wait upon his holiness. And in this there was nothing unusual, for St Armand was an old man, well skilled as a physician, with a certain authority about him, and he was known to be high in favour with the priest. St Armand said nothing about Marigold’s approaching visit, for, like all immortals, he had great faith in the unexpected. Prepare a man--and, well, somehow or other he is prepared, and at times is troublesome. So, with the ordinary medicine at eight o’clock he mixed a little of his own, for, said he: “I promised Marigold he should neither mope nor grump, and this fool’s quackeries will enlarge his liver and raise up the ghost of conscience itself. But mine is just a _gentle_ stimulus to feeling, sleep for an hour or so--our best medicine--then awake.”