“I want to achieve myself,” he said simply. “There is something within me which is great; therefore I feel very joyful. It is like a flame in my heart which warms all my blood; it is like wings folded to my feet which one day will open and carry me--above the earth.” He paused and added, “You see I am speaking like a child, but it is difficult to find a language for these thoughts.” “It is impossible,” answered Luc de Clapiers under his breath; “the holiest things in the world are those that have never been expressed. The new philosophy is as far from them as the old bigotry, and Prince Wenceslas, who died here five hundred years ago, knew as much of it as we do who are so wise, so civilized--so bewildered, after all.” The youth looked at him reverently; until to-day he had hardly noticed the silent young soldier, for Luc de Clapiers had nothing remarkable about his person or his manner. “Monsieur, you think, then, that I shall achieve my ambitions?” Hitherto he had been indifferent to encouragement; now he felt eager for this man’s approval and confidence. “Of course--you surely never doubt?” “No.” Georges d’Espagnac smiled dreamily. “I have done nothing yet. I have no task, no duty, no burden; there is nothing put to my hand--everything is so golden that it dazzles me. I think that will clear like dawn mists, and then I shall see what I am to do. You understand, Monsieur?” The young captain smiled in answer. “I brought you here to say a prayer to St. Wenceslas,” he said. M. d’Espagnac looked up at the picture above the altar. A prince, and young; a saint, and brave; a knight, and murdered--it was an ideal to call forth admiration and sorrow. The lieutenant went on his knees and clasped his hands. “Ah, Monsieur,” he said, half wistfully, “he was murdered--a villain’s knife stopped his dreams. Death is unjust”--he frowned, “if I were to die now, I should be unknown--empty-handed--forgotten. But it is not possible,” he added sharply. He drew from the bosom of his uniform a breviary in ivory with silver clasps, opened it where the leaves held some dried flowers and a folded letter, then closed it and bent his head against the altar rail as if he wept. Luc de Clapiers went to the bronze gates and looked thoughtfully down the vast dusky aisles of the church, so cold, so alluring yet confusing to the senses, so majestic and silent. He stood so several minutes, then turned slowly to observe the young figure kneeling before the barbaric Christian altar. Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken, crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.