“Well, _you_ believe in Him;” said Zouche at last, “and I will catch hold of your angel’s robe as you pass into His Presence and say to Him;--’ Here comes poor Zouche, who wrote of beautiful things among ugly surroundings, and who, in order to be true to his friends, chose poverty rather than the gold of a king!’” Lotys smiled, very sweetly and indulgently. “Such a plea would stand you in good stead, Zouche! To be always true to one’s friends, and to persistently believe in beauty, is a very long step towards Heaven!” “I did not say I _believed_ in beauty,” said Zouche suddenly and obstinately;--“I dream it--I think it--but I do not see it! To me the world is one Horror--nothing but a Grave into which we all must fall! The fairest face has a hideous skull behind it,--the dazzling blue of the sea covers devouring monsters in its depths--the green fields, the lovely woodlands, are full of vile worms and noxious beetles,--and space itself swarms with thick-strewn worlds,--flaming comets,--blazing nebulae,--among which our earth is but a gnat’s wing in a huge flame! Horrible!--horrible!” And he spoke with a kind of vehement fury. “Let us not think of it! Why should we insist on Truth? Let us have lies!--dear, sweet lies and fond delusions! Let us believe that men are all honest, and women all loving!--that there are virgins and saints and angels, as well as bishops and curates, looking after us in this wild world of terror,--oh, yes!--let us believe!--better the Pope’s little private snuggery of a Heaven, than the crushing truth which says ‘Our God is a consuming fire’! Knowledge deepens sorrow,--truth kills!--we must--we must have a little love, and a few lies to lean upon!” His voice faltered,--and a sudden ashy paleness overspread his features,--his head fell back helplessly, and he seemed transfixed and insensible. Leroy and one or two of the others rose in alarm, thinking he had swooned, but Sergius Thord warned them back by a sign. The little Pequita, slipping from the arms of Lotys, went softly up to him. “Paul! Dear Paul!” she said in her soft childish tones. Zouche stirred, and stretching out one hand, groped with it blindly in the air. Pequita took it, warming it between her own little palms. “Paul!” she said; “Do wake up! You have been asleep such a long time!” He opened his eyes. The grey pallor passed from his face; he lifted his head and smiled. “So! There you are, Pequita!” he said gently; “Dear little one! So brave and cheerful in your hard life!” He lifted her small brown hand, and kissed it. The feverish tension of his brain relaxed,--and two large tears welled up in his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. “Poor little girl!” he murmured weakly; “Poor little hard-working girl!”