“Sir,” said the doctor with a quick reminiscence of his wasted studies, “I _have_ buried my friends: but I love them still. But,” he went on, “it is not of old notions that I have to speak with you. You have shown me this afternoon something newer and,” he added sadly, “it may be, something better than all that old books tell. I ask you to impart to me no secret that might hurt you by the telling. Until now I have maintained that nothing exists in this present world that is not of natural course. If it be an honest mystery that you exercise, tell me, the humblest and poorest of scholars, whether it be the miraculous working of God’s power in human hands or simply the exercise of human art.” The stranger seated himself, uninvited, in the doctor’s chair, and the doctor took a stool. “Everything,” said the stranger, “is miracle to him who does not know.” “Great heavens,” cried Makepeace, “that is the beginning of my quotation from the learned Theodorus Gazophylacius. I never heard of the great Gazophylacius until Galiani told me of him: nobody that I know had heard of him. A marvellous scholar, truly, was Gazophylacius, but a pagan at heart, albeit a Byzantine Christian--and sadly drowned in superstition. Shall I show you the passage in the original Greek.” And he feverishly turned the pages of the _Speculum_ to find it? “You may spare yourself that trouble,” said the stranger composedly. “Shall I finish the quotation? Shall I write it for you?” And he unceremoniously tore a corner from one of the immaculate leaves, took a quill and wrote. “There,” said he, “there, I have written in Greek what follows in your quotation, and I have added my name that you may remember the writer.” [Illustration: _Chapel Doorway in Master’s Garden._] The doctor took it and read the delicate Greek characters: “Demetrius Commagenus. All things are possible to him who knows and wills with earnestness.” Makepeace was stupified. “Commagenus,” he said: “that is a Greek name, I take it. And yet I would have sworn that the handwriting was Galiani’s, and Galiani was an Italian. Besides, Galiani is dead, or he is sixty years old, less or more, by now: and you--I cannot think that you are past forty.” Indifferently the self-styled Commagenus replied: “Galiani or Commagenus--what matters? What I wrote then I write now; and always I am your humble servant and the poor scholar who drew wisdom from the lips of the divine Gazophylacius.” “We talk in dreams,” said Matthew: “Galiani told me--_you_ told me, if you are he--that Gazophylacius died at Rome, ten years after the Turks entered Constantinople: and that was a hundred and fifty years ago.” “Yes,” answered Commagenus, “he died--the more is the pity; for he might have lived, had he chosen to use his own wisdom. Instead of that he imparted it on his death-bed to me. What care had he to live, an outcast in strange lands? But this world lost its wisest man; for I am no Gazophylacius. Only I am always learning.”