It was winter midnight in the Adirondack Mountains. Regan had brought us to the desolate hut of a hermit; we had not realized that the circumstance might be the result of design; it seemed like an accident. We had been lost in the snow storm; the horses had failed us; even Father Renaudin, who for twenty years had not missed his smallest appointment for any hindrance, was bewildered and could not say which way to go to save us all from death. Like a spirit of the storm itself, Regan had led us through drifted ravines and across cloudy plains until we reached safety. The warm light of the fire fell upon a company which had never before been united under one roof. There was Father Renaudin, the fanatical, puritanic priest of a small new sect, one which he had gathered in this wilderness. His silver hair, pale, stern face, tall, powerful form and crimson robe were vividly illuminated. Beside him sat the beautiful Isabella, with bronze hair, starry eyes, perfect face; her purple velvet robes were heavy with rich furs; her arms and hands were sparkling with jewels. A very queen of beauty was Isabella. On the other side of the hearth was Rondah, a dull, frightened child. Her face was tear-stained and her lips were yet quivering from her recent fright. Her brown eyes were too large; her red hair was tumbling loose from its braids. Still, I must pity her—shabby, frail, in terror, but all alone among us. Regan was there. I remember him yet as he looked then. I think I shall remember him so beyond the grave. His dark, patrician face was lighted with iniquitous triumph, which glowed beneath a mask of assumed quiet as fiery coals glow under ashes. His jet black hair clustered in rings about his brow; his wonderful, beautiful eyes scintillated scorn. It seemed to me that the life of his soul was demon-bred, but chained to certain customs of humanity, because weighted with the accident of a human body. Regan’s name was the town’s disgrace; though so young he had no friends, accepted no truths, discarded all faiths. He talked of a Destiny, which, he claimed, blundered in ruling the universe—a creature blind and non-reasoning, of immensity itself a part; a monstrous something driven like the sun, but by some causeless motor, forever. The storm raged on unabated. As I looked at Regan, some subtle influence seemed to stand beside me. Plain as a human friend’s, I heard its whisper: “Duped, duped again, Roy Lee! Do you recall that this is the thirteenth of November?” The thought chilled me—the thirteenth! I hated Regan. He had just saved my life, but still I hated him! Why did he listen, listen? One need not listen to hear the storm! “Did the old hermit die here alone?” asked Isabella. The silent form lay in another room. “I was here. I came at the last, almost too late,” answered Regan.