"You are going to seek the Garden of Hesperides, but there you will find no golden fruit. No; the dragons are better employed. They watch two beautiful maidens, and eye jealously wandering knights, such as yourselves, who would steal them. I am speaking not of the dragons, but of the maidens. Nevertheless, from this quest I know not how you will return. The dragon who guards the princess of Tobias is amenable to reason, and if the son succeeds in gaining the love of the princess the father may gain the consent of the dragon. But the other dragon, Mr. Maxwell, is a fire-breathing beast, and even if you succeed in overcoming this first danger your princess is still beyond your reach, because of her father. True, at present he is away, but when he returns, young man--oh, when he returns!" "When he does it will be too late; for I shall have gained the heart of his daughter." "True. When the steed is stolen it is useless to shut the stable-door. Go, Mr. Maxwell, I see you have all the egotism and confidence of youth necessary to enable you to achieve this quest successfully." So they went. It was a bright summer day, and the sun shone brightly in a blue sky dappled with fleecy clouds. Gently blew the wind through the trees, rustling their foliage, wherein sang the joyous birds. Thrush and black-bird and ouzel and redcap piped gaily on the swaying boughs in very gladness of heart. At intervals there sounded the mellow voice of the cuckoo, and from the blue sky rained the song of the lark, invisible from the verdant earth. In the quaint gardens of Thornstream Manor bloomed the flowers--roses, roses everywhere in rich profusion, from pale cold buds to deeply crimsoned blossoms. A sudden flame of scarlet geraniums burns along the foot of the garden wall, and among their cool green leaves flash the orange circles of the marigolds. Rosemary dark and sombre, _old man_, with its thin leaves like grey-green seaweed, form beds of reposeful tint, overlaid by brilliant coloured flowers, scarlet and blue and yellow; but the prevailing tint is white. Foxgloves with delicate white bells round which hum the noisy bees--scattered clusters of pale flushed roses, other flowers with white petals all streaked and dappled and spotted with innumerable tints. A beautiful garden, truly, and the thievish wind stealing odours from the profusion of sweets carried them on languid wings to Mrs. Belswin and Kaituna, sitting on the terrace.