Hagané drew a slow glance around the semicircle, plunged his hands within his silken sleeves, and began to speak. His voice was very deep, and in some consonant sounds, of a slight harshness. The vowels were full, rich, and resonant. His speech held at command a certain strange, almost benumbing magnetism, a compelling response, such as one experiences in the after-vibrations of a great bell. "Oh, I feel in my bones that it is going to be a ghost story, a real one," whispered Gwendolen, with a shiver of excitement. Hagané did not notice the remark. Todd and Mr. Dodge sent her, in unison, a bright glance of appreciation. "The painting for which I now attempt the speaking," said Hagané, "made, for centuries, the chief altarpiece of a certain old temple in Yamato. It was a very old temple,--yes, among the very first built in Nippon for Buddhist worship. One night, when the black sky was rent with storm, and lightning hurled out many terrible spears, one flash found that temple, burning it swiftly to a square of low red ashes. Everything burned; gold and brass and iron melted like wax--all but the picture; and three days after they found it still on red coals, glowing more fierce and red than they. Nothing was harmed in it except the brocaded edge, and that was soon replaced. This is the picture you shall see." "Oh!" breathed Gwendolen. "Afterward it was conveyed to a famous temple of Kioto; but the head priest, the Ajari, being of timid thought, refused to shelter it. By his order it was carried in secrecy to a much smaller temple, very distant, in the province of Konda, where is my father's home of birth." He paused. The listeners all shifted position a little, all but Yuki, who sat upright and motionless, her soul living in her long dark eyes. "Even in so small a temple its power began to attract many worshippers and wonder-seekers. The fame of it grew like the grasses of summer. At the time of our Restoration, the beginning of that cycle of our time called 'Mei-ji,' its destruction was officially decreed. It was designated 'the object of slavish superstition.' My father was requested, with his own hands, to annihilate it." "Ah," muttered Pierre, with feeling. "But, thank the good God, it wasn't destroyed, since you are soon to show it!" One of Mrs. Todd's thick feet had gone to sleep. She stretched it out under her skirt with great caution. Hagané looked up into Pierre's bright eyes. "As you observe, Monsieur, it was not annihilated. My father made request of Government that it be sold privately to him, and in return he gave pledge that it never again be used--publicly--as the altarpiece. Thus it came into my possession." There had been something suggestive, almost sinister, in his use of the word "publicly." His glance had just brushed Yuki's face. Gwendolen's hands turned cold. "But what power needed to be suppressed--what harm could a picture do?" cried the blonde girl, eagerly.