"The hand persuaded the traveller to go inside the cave, and promised that his friends should follow. He obeyed, but taking no notice of its beauties stood listening behind the door. He heard the whistling of a scourge and gasps of pain. Then quiet; the door opened, and there appeared his two companions, yet changed, and with a deep fire in their eyes: and they had eagle pinions in the place of dragonfly wings." "That is very charming indeed," said Norman. "But does it quite explain your remark?" "If you were to read Plato with attention," said the old man, "you would acquire the habit of seizing the point of a parable." "I have read the New Testament." "But this is philosophy." "And I am sure," said Norman, "that had Plato written that story you have told me, it would have acquired a great reputation. But as for the connexion of the parable and your remark, I conceive that in both you show a dislike of the picturesque, or pretty considering it the foe of beauty." "The picturesque, my son, _is_ the beautiful but only a section thereof. In this fable I have represented it as miniature beauty. The other fable of the picturesque I have no need to write; it is written over the world from the columns of Baalbek to the arches of Tintern and blazed on every stone of Alsander." "You mean the picturesque which is decaying beauty?" "I do," said the old man. "I understand you, venerable Sir, but why are you so passionate about it all?" "Don't you see, boy, I love Alsander with a love a little different from the love of the tourist who comes to photograph the ruins. Oh! I have worked for her; but she is dying, dying, dying like a rose on a sapless tree." "I am afraid you are right," said Norman, sadly. "After what you have shown me I have no hope for unfortunate Alsander." "Impudent tourist! Do not dare blaspheme against the Queen of cities!" growled the old man. There is more hope radiating from a wayside shrine of Alsander than from all the ten-million heretic barns of your greedy North. But Norman was used by now to these intermittent bursts of fury. "At all events," he rejoined, "Alsander is no place for an Englishman. I have had enough of it. I have to-day seen its last and most tragic secret. To-morrow I will go." "You are not going so soon?" There was real dismay in the old man's voice. "By the first train to-morrow."