"And as to Antoinette's Arabic remarks in her sleep: the bride of the garden, dispossessed of her body for the time, sought Antoinette's. And by that astral connection which she retained with her own, she felt the scourgings administered in the garden, and expressed herself, through Antoinette's lips, as you heard." D'Artois emerged from his chair and bowed with formal precision. "I will therefore leave you here, my blundering Afghan, to have your wounds properly nursed while I go about doing all that an old man can do under the circumstances: envy you, and write a monograph on _Messieurs les Assassins_, and Satan's Garden, from which you so happily emerged." With a peremptory gesture, he cut short Antoinette's insistence upon his pausing for at least a moment. Then, halting at the door, he concluded as he glanced at Farrell, "_Mordieu_, and to think that you enjoyed all that fine sword-play, while I, Pierre d'Artois, had to wear a diving-suit to find a fight, and then had to use a crowbar! In _several_ ways I envy you." THE END