The accidents of time, place, and colour, had so beautifully blended into a perfectly proportioned whole that it seemed more of design than chance. Lisolé smiled down at the big man. "My jesting days are long gone by," he said. "But, messires, I will try my hand for you this noon if perchance it has not lost all cunning. Once I had knowledge of the art of legerdemain, by which the hands, moving very swiftly and with concealed motions, do so trick and deceive the eye that he knows not what a-hath seen." With a gurgle of satisfaction, Brother Felix sat up and propped himself against the cabin. Hyla drew nearer, with attentive eyes. Lisolé left them for a moment and went inside the cabin. He came out with several articles in his hands, which he put beside him on the deck. He showed them his bare hands, and then suddenly stretching out his right arm he caught at the empty air, and, behold! there came into his hand, how they could not tell, a little rod of black wood a foot in length or more. A swift change came into his voice. It sank a full tone and became very solemn. His face was very grave. Hyla watched him with wide eyes and parted lips. He turned to the serf, "Now, Hyla," said he, "art about to witness art magic, but none of Satan's, so be brave. Take you this little wand of enchaunted ebon-wood and say what dost make of it." Very timidly, and with a half withdrawal, Hyla's great brown paw took the toy. He examined it, smelt it like a dog, and then with some relief gave it back to the owner. "'Tis but a little stick of wood," he said. "Natheless, a stick of good magic, thrall, for 'twas of this wood that the coffin of Mahound was built." Hyla crossed himself reverently. He was surprised to see the monk was smiling easily. "The holy man has known these things of old," thought he, with a humble recognition of his own limitations and ignorance. "He seemeth nothing accoyed." Lisolé cleared a space on the deck in front of him, and laid the wand upon it. Then he stretched out his hand over it, as though in invocation. "_By the Garden of Alamoot where thou grew_," he cried, "_and by the virtue of the blood of Count Raymond of Tripoli, whose blood fell on thee as he died in that garden, I command thee to do my will, little black stick_." He took a little pipe of reed from his belt, and, stopping one end with his finger, blew softly through it. A mellow flute-like note quivered through the air. Hardly pausing for breath, the jester continued the monotonous cooing sound for several minutes. Hyla watched the wand with fascinated eyes. Suddenly it began to tremble slightly and to roll this way and that. The pipe changed its notes and broke into the lilt of a simple dance. Simultaneously with the change the little stick rose up on its end and inclined itself gravely to each of them in turn. Then it began to hop up and down, retreating and advancing, in time to the music.