Senor Ribero smiled enigmatically into his wine-glass. "I fear, senorita, that is the sad difference between fiction and history. My tale is a true one." "At all events," continued the girl with vigor, "he was a brave man. That is enough to remember. I think it is better to forget the rest." It seemed to Ribero that the glance Saxon flashed on her was almost the glance of gratitude. "What was his name?" she suddenly demanded. "He called himself--at that time--George Carter," Ribero said slowly, "but gentlemen in the unrecognized pursuits quite frequently have occasion to change their names. Now, it is probably something else." After the dinner had ended, while the guests fell into groups or waited for belated carriages, Saxon found himself standing apart, near the window. It was open on the balcony, and the man felt a sudden wish for the quiet freshness of the outer air on his forehead. He drew back the curtain, and stepped across the low sill, then halted as he realized that he was not alone. The sputtering arc-light swinging over the street made the intervening branches and leaves of the sidewalk sycamores stand out starkly black, like a ragged drop hung over a stage. The May moon was only a thin sickle, and the other figure on the darkly shadowed balcony was vaguely defined, but Saxon at once recognized, in its lithe slenderness and grace of pose, Miss Filson. "I didn't mean to intrude," he hastily apologized. "I didn't know you were here." She laughed. "Would that have frightened you?" she asked. She was leaning on the iron rail, and the man took his place at her side. "I came with the Longmores," she explained, "and their machine hasn't come yet. It's cool here--and I was thinking--" "You weren't by any chance thinking of Babylon?" he laughed, "or Macedonia?" She shook her head. "Mr. Ribero's story sticks in my mind. It was so personal, and--I guess I'm a moody creature. Anyway, I find myself thinking of it." There was silence for a space, except for the laughter that floated up from the verandah below them, where a few of the members sat smoking, and the softened clicking of ivory from the open windows of the billiard-room. The painter's fingers, resting on the iron rail, closed over a tendril of clambering moon-flower vine, and nervously twisted the stem. With an impulsive movement, he leaned forward. His voice was eager. "Suppose," he questioned, "suppose you knew such a man--can you imagine any circumstances under which you could make excuses for him?" She stood a moment weighing the problem. "It's a hard question," she replied finally, then added impulsively: "Do you know, I'm afraid I'm a terrible heathen? I can excuse so much where there is courage--the cold sort of chilled-steel courage that he had. What do you think?"