All the sconces were lighted of a sudden, and the martlets and serpents in the alt-relief above the panelling sprang into a weird life. Resting between the fire-dogs on the open hearth were three logs, one of pine, another of oak, and a third of sycamore. The grey flame licked them hungrily, and the sap hissed and bubbled. The carved work of the walls was distinct: Potiphar’s wife wrapped her bed-gown about Joseph, Judith triumphed with the bloody head aloft, and in the centre Lot’s daughters paddled with his withered jowls. I felt but little wonder at the change from stillness to life. As the last of my race, treasurer of a vast hoard of traditions, why should I be disturbed by this return of the creatures of old? I dragged forth the creaking sedan, and sat waiting. A rusty, half-unstrung zither that hung near quivered and gave one faint note to the melody. Ere its vibration had ceased, Mistress Lenore entered through the arched doorway. Hour after hour had she plucked those wires that cried out in welcome. Her fox-coloured tresses were wrought into a fantastic web; each separate hair twisted and coiled. A pink flush painted her cheeks, and her lustrous blue eyes were mirthful. She wore opals (unfortunate stones for such as love), and hanging from a black riband below her throat was the golden cross Prince Charles had sent her from Rome. The legends of her character came in floods. Wantonly capricious at one moment, earnest and devout as a nun’s at another, her expression changed a thousand times as I beheld. Now she was racking her soul with jealousy; now pleading--as she alone could plead--for pardon; now, when pardon was won, laughingly swearing that her repentance was only feigned. As she neared my heart beat furiously, and I cried ‘_Lenore! Lenore!_’ My voice was low and broken (the music gave a loud burst then), but she passed without a word, her ivory-like hands almost hidden beneath jewels and lace. The further door stood open, and she disappeared. Nowell the Platonist followed; a haggard middle-aged man in a long cloak of sable-edged black velvet. Forgetful of all save desire, he bore a scroll of parchment, whereon was written in great letters _To Parthenia_. This was the only outcome of his one passion. At the second window he paused, with a wry mouth, to gaze on that statue of Europa from whose arm he had hanged himself. Then his hands were uplifted to his head to force away the agony of despair; for hurrying towards him came the Mad Maid, who could not love him, being devoted to the memory of one wrecked at sea.