One was a little above medium height. Every limb was sinewy, with a lithe suppleness and gracefulness which glossed over the real strength beneath. He stood out dark in bold relief against the moonshine—like serpentine coiling smoke of clearest blackness. A face magnificent in profile—though framed on delicate lines—and eyes deep, hard, dark, far-seeing, far-reaching, unfathomable and cold. The other, at first sight, bore a marked resemblance. But there were strong differences, which showed themselves more strongly at every after-glance. He was of about the same height, with the same perfect cast of features, and there the likeness ended. White and pure and cold, he too was vividly distinct, with a simple strength and purpose, and the grace, if grace it can be called, born of these. In his eyes there shone simplicity and pureness, and something stern too. He was standing on the extreme rocky point of the peaked woodland, scanning the horizon, land, and sea, and sky, and ever and anon his eyes travelled to one of the millions of bright stars shining overhead. To this star the eyes of his companion also wandered in contemplation. He sat upon the rustic seat, bending his arm gracefully over the back and leaning there, his head upon his hand. His left hand hung motionless by his side, and on its middle finger shone a ring. A glorious belt of blood-red stones with a brilliant one of remarkable beauty in the centre. It was the only relief from darkness round about him, and though but a small thing, it gleamed with magical effect. Another “tu-hoot.” A slight wind rustled and parted the leaves, and there between the two in the open space another figure stood, a spirit of animation, beauty, strength and vigour. Slightly taller than the other two, he moved with easy step and sat down by the opposite arm of the seat. Then he looked up and revealed a face on which sat some discontent and perhaps annoyance. “Thank God to get away for a time,” said he. “Contact with mortals makes you unmindful of manners.” The dark spirit had spoken, gazing at him, laughingly. “Yes, Plucritus. One cannot stay in an old farm-house for several hours in the society of an over-fed midwife and not get slightly tarnished.” “But what are you doing there?” said he who answered to the name of Plucritus. “Over-fed midwives? What shocking bad taste.” “Well, so it may be. But there I’ve been and there I’ll have to stay.” “But why?” “Destiny, I suppose—or perhaps ill-luck.” “A girl or a boy?” “A girl—worse luck still.” And he said it with such contempt that the other’s laugh was perhaps excusable. “You’re in for it and no mistake. If I am any judge you won’t get on very well.” And the spirit Virginius alone saw the steady, penetrating, sidelong glance that accompanied Plucritus’s idle words. “No,” rejoined Genius. “It’s ridiculous. You have made a mistake.” “I never make mistakes,” replied the other, drily. The blood-red ring gleamed scarlet. “Never? Did you say never?”