“But I think what I liked best of all was Sir Thomas Malory.” “That is what Audry likes best,” said Aline; “she thinks that some of the books that I read are too dry, because they are not stories, but I am not sure that I too do not like ‘The Morte d’Arthur’ best of all.” “Read me something out of that.” She turned to the well known scene of the passing of Arthur. Master Mowbray leaned back against the window-jamb and looked across at her in the opposite corner. The late afternoon sun was warm and golden. She was wearing a little white dress, which took on a rich glow in the mellow light. Over her hair and shoulder played the colours from the glass in the upper part of the window. She knew the story practically by heart and her big eyes looking across at him seemed to grow larger and rounder with wonder and mystery as she told the tale. Under the spell of the soft witching music of her voice he was transported to that enchanted land, and there he saw the dying king and Sir Bedivere failing to throw the sword into the water:--“But go again lightly, for thy long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold ... for thou wouldest for my rich sword see me dead!” Then followed the passage where Sir Bedivere throws in the sword and the mystic barge comes with the three Queens, and as Richard Mowbray looked over at the little face before him he saw in the one face the beauty of them all. So on the wings of a perfect tale perfectly told he forgot the perplexities and anxieties that encompassed him, and himself floated to the Land of Avilion while he gazed and, like Ian Menstrie, was lured by the same charm and began to wonder whether she were not indeed herself from the land of faëry. “‘For I will go to the vale of Avilion,’” he repeated to himself, “‘to heal me of my grievous wound.’” “Yes, this is a healing of the wounds of life,” he added. “I never realised before that beauty had such power. Come, child, it is time we went,” he said aloud and gently lifted her in his arms; “we must see what the others are doing.” So he carried her out on to the terrace that ran in front of the library and down the steps and across the quadrangle to the great Hall. There they found considerable excitement; a packman with five horses had arrived from the south and every one was making purchases who had any money laid by. “Now that is a fine carpet,” he was saying as he unrolled a piece of Flemish work. “It was made at Ispahan for the Shah of Persia and is the best bit of Persian carpet you will ever see. That would look well in my lady’s boudoir. I would let you have that for five florins.” He did not seem very pleased at the master’s entrance at that moment; Richard Mowbray glanced at it and remarked, “But that is Flemish weaving.” “Did I not say Flemish?” he said. “Oh, it is Flemish right enough; it was made for the Duke of Flanders.” “And if I had said it was Tuscan I suppose it would have been made for the Duke of Tuscany.”