As I neared the lane to the waste, a most unholy dawn broke behind the fringe of pines, looping the boles with strings of grey-golden light. Surely a figure moved there? I ran. A curious motley and a noisy swarmed forth at me. Another moment, and I was in the midst of a host of weasels and hares and such-like creatures, all flying from the precincts of the tomb. I quaked with dread, and the hair of my flesh stood upright. But I thrust on, and parted the thorn boughs, and looked up at the mound. On the summit thereof sat Michal, triumphing, invested with flames. And the Shape approached, and wrapped her in his blackness. THE NOBLE COURTESAN _The Apology of the Noble Courtesan_ was fresh from the printers; the smell of ink filled the antechamber. The volume was bound in white parchment, richly gilt; on the front board was a scarlet shield graven with a familiar coat-of-arms. Frambant turned the leaves hastily, and found on the dedication page the following address:-- ‘_To the Right Honourable Michael, Lord Frambant, Baron of Britton_ ‘MY LORD,--It is not from desire of pandering to your position as one who has served his country wisely and well that I presume to dedicate to you the following Apology. A name so honoured, a character so perfect, need no illuming. ’Tis as a Woman whose heart you have stirred, into whose life you are bound to enter. For know, my Lord, that women are paramount in this world. In the after-sphere we may be Apes, but here we are the Controllers of Men’s fates, and so, in the character of one whom you have stricken with love, I profess myself, my Lord, your Lordship’s Most Obliged and Most Obedient Humble Servant, THE NOBLE COURTESAN.’ Frambant flung the book angrily across the room. What trull was this who dared approach him so familiarly? His brows contracted; his grey eyes shot fire; a warm dash of blood drove the wanness from his cheeks. The very thought of strange women was hateful: it was scarce a year since the wife he had won after so much striving had yielded up life in childbed, and he had sworn to remain alone for the rest of his days. Catching sight of his reflection in a mirror, he saw resentment and disgust there. But when he looked again at the book he found that a note had been forced from its cover. Curiosity overcame, and he stooped and took it in his hand. Like the dedication it was addressed to himself: he unfolded it with some degree of fear. ‘You will infinitely oblige a distressed Lover,’ he read, ‘if you meet her at Madam Horneck’s bagnio. Midnight’s the time. She will wear a domino of green gauze, a white satin robe braided with golden serpents.--CONSTANTIA.’