With a sudden movement she undid her robe at the neck, so that it whispered and slipped down, showing a form so beautiful that a mist rose and cloaked it from his eyes,--such perfection being beyond nature. He moved towards the door, but she interrupted him. ‘Is not this enough?’ she cried. And she tore away the green veil and showed him a face fit to match the rest. Only once before had he seen its wondrous loveliness. Again his eyes were drawn to Villiers. How he had loved the lad! Very strange it was: but at the instant his mind went back to boyhood, when he had made him hobby-horses. ‘You have killed my brother! you have killed my brother!’ Constantia laughed wearily. ‘Enough of that mixture of iron and clay. What is the penalty?’ ‘The law shall decide.’ She sprang forward and drew the knife from Villiers’s breast. Frambant, however, forced it from her hand. ‘For love of the wife who died, who even now is pleading at God’s throne for me?’ Frambant’s fingers relaxed. ‘Hush!’ he said. ‘If I must die let it be at thy hands.’ ‘As you will: here ... write.’ He took a quill from the table and dipped it in the pool of stiffening blood. Then he dictated, whilst she wrote in a firm hand. ‘_I, Constantia, the Noble Courtesan, after slaying five men, meet with a just punishment. Seek not to know further._’ She pressed close to him, smiling very tenderly. Her eyes were full of passionate adoration. As he raised the knife to her breast she caught his disengaged hand between her own.... Frambant wrapped her in the gauze. Then after pinning the paper at the head, and covering all with the gown of white satin that was braided with golden serpents, he carried her through the house and garden. Dayspring was near, the light appalling. He reached the cypress sedan and laid his burden inside. The two blackamoors, who had gibbered sleepily the while, caught up the poles and bore the Noble Courtesan away. THE WRITINGS OF ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR A portrait of Althea Swarthmoor hangs in the library of the House with Eleven Staircases. She is depicted (by Kneller’s brush) as a tall, thin woman of about thirty, somewhat sallow in the matter of complexion, and with deerhound eyes. Her crisp black hair is drawn plainly from an admirably arched brow, and there is a perplexed look about her lips. Doctor Marston’s miniature hangs beside--the presentment of a corpulent, thick-necked divine with a fair skin, pallid eyes, and a sensuous mouth. Herrickian curls lie flat on the temples. A suave grace is manifest in the dimpled chin and complacent cheeks. The literary remains of Althea are coffined in sheepskin on the topmost shelf of the bookcase. The Swarthmoors have a strenuous objection to the opening of this volume, for the episode of their seven times great-aunt is supposed to reflect no honour on the family. However, a few specimens of her fantastic letters, culled at random, can harm neither them nor the reader. ALTHEA SWARTHMOOR TO DR. MARSTON.