It ran along the walls above the large hall and I walked through it slowly, more intent on my own thoughts than the surroundings. You have felt depression and can understand the feeling that was mine. It seemed as if the whole great palace hung on me; from ever gloomy piece of armoury some scarcely-breathed sigh escaped; each marble figure looked at me with silence-speaking pain. My thoughts ran ever back to the world I had left; at times I thought of you, and wondered how you fared, being left alone. But in the midst of this sad reverie I was aroused by hearing a clear and penetrating, yet eerie, mournful sound. Then I laughed. ’Twas but a gong calling to that meal of which by this time I was much in need. I retraced my steps toward the staircase, and as I descended I became aware of the simplicity of the garment which I wore; but being a Spirit I had, or rather had had, the power to change it to whatever form or kind I chose. But now that power had left me. I remembered with some haste that scene in the bedchamber, in which the wretched menial had offered me such sumptuous attire. Impatiently, then, I had rejected all his offers, whether from preoccupation or some other cause, it would be hard to say. In a marvellously short time, in other places, I could have transformed the simplicity of plainness into that of beauty, but now I must either go back for borrowed garments or appear just as I was. With that independence which has ever been part of my nature I chose the latter course, and passed down into the hall. There I found two slaves waiting for me. And whilst I mention them I may describe them briefly. In this palace the slaves and menials were countless, and in shape they were all lean, deformed, wrinkled, and hungry-eyed. They walked about naked, unable to hide one disproportioned limb or hideous defect, and ever through the hungry look within their eyes hatred would gleam and baffled cunning. They alone were in themselves fit subjects for depression, for spirit-instinct told me that round each form was wreathed a history of the past, binding like some tight chain. These led me, with many varied expressions of obeisance, to the large dining-hall. Here there were many tables, but only one was laid, and this was at the farther end, beside a fireplace. They were waiting for me—were not yet seated. As I approached they turned from the conversation in which they were engaged and looked at me with some interest. But into the eyes of Plucritus, as he glanced over me, there blazed a flash of anger. I noticed it, and the cause, though the expression was momentary. “This is our guest,” he said, turning from me to her. “I know,” she answered lightly, coming forward. “We are well acquainted, though he preferred sleep to me. For all that I have never had your name on good authority, nor indeed at all.”