“This is the chapel of St. Wenceslas,” he said. “He was a prince, and he built this church; but before it was finished his brother murdered him as he clung to this ring--and the church has never been completed.” He pushed the heavy gate open, and the two stood surrounded by the pomp and grave splendour of Eastern taste. From floor to ceiling the walls were inlaid with Bohemian jewels set in patterns of gold; the ceiling itself was covered with ancient but still glowing frescoes; the altar was silver and gold and lumachella, the marble which holds fire, and contained vessels of crude but dazzling colour and shape in enamel, painted wood, and precious stones. A mighty candelabrum which showed a beautiful and powerful figure of Wenceslas stood before the altar, and lit, by a dozen wax candles, the cuirass and helmet of the murdered saint, preserved in a curious case of rock crystal which rested on the altar cover of purple silk and scarlet fringing. Above the altar hung a Flemish picture showing the murder of the Prince by the fierce Boleslav; the colours were as bright as the gems in the walls, and the faces had a lifelike look of distorted passion. A pink marble shell of holy water stood near the entrance, and the lieutenant, with the instinct of an ingrained creed, dipped in his fingers and crossed himself. Luc de Clapiers did not perform this rite, but passed to the altar rails and leant there thoughtfully, a figure in strong contrast to his background. “M. d’Espagnac,” he said, in a low, composed voice, “I liked the way you spoke to-night. Forgive me--but I too have thought as you do--I also live for glory.” At hearing these words the youth flushed with a nameless and inexpressible emotion; he came to the altar also and lowered his eyes to the mosaic pavement that sparkled in the candlelight. He had only been a year in the army and one campaign at the war; every detail of his life still had the intoxication of novelty, and these words, spoken by his captain amidst surroundings exotic as an Eastern fairy tale, fired his ardent imagination and caught his spirit up to regions of bewildering joy. “You have everything in the world before you,” continued Luc de Clapiers, and his voice, though very soft, had a note of great inner strength. “If anyone should laugh or sneer because you desire to give your life to glory, you must only pity them. M. de Biron, for instance--those people cannot understand.” He moved his hand delicately to his breast and turned his deep hazel eyes earnestly on the youth. “You must not be discouraged. You are seeking for something that _is_ in the world, something that other men have found--and won--in different ways, but by the light of the same spirit--always.” M. d’Espagnac sighed, very gently; his whitened hair and pure face were of one paleness in the ghostly, dim, mingled light of coloured lamp and flickering candle.