"I don't think Abbot Raoul was a fool," protested the host mildly, "on the contrary, he is said to have been a learned and clever man. Aymas Ainsleigh, received the abbey from Henry VIII., and burnt Abbot Raoul in his own cloisters," he nodded towards the ruins, "you can see the blackened square of grass yonder, as a proof of the curse. Herbage will not grow there, and never will, till the curse be lifted." "Huh," said the Major with supreme contempt, "any chance of that?" Rupert smiled. "A chance that will never occur I fear. The curse, or prophecy, or whatever you like to call it----" "I call it rubbish," interpolated the sceptic. "Well doubting Thomas, it runs like this,--rude enough verse as you will see, but you can't expect a doomed man to be particular as to literary style," and Rupert recited slowly:-- "My curse from the tyrants will never depart, For a sword in the hands of the angel flashes: Till Ainsleigh, poor, weds the poor maid of his heart, And gold be brought forth from the holy ashes." "I spare you the ancient pronunciation Major." Tidman filled another glass with wine, and laughed scornfully. "I expect the old monk made up the second line to rhyme with ashes," he said expanding his broad chest. "I've heard that rubbishy poetry before. But haven't the Ainsleighs always married poor girls?" "Some did, but then they had money. It must be a poor Ainsleigh to wed a poor girl to fulfil the third line. My father and grandfather were both poor, but they married rich brides." "And what became of the cash?" "It went--I don't know how--but it went." "Gold turns to dry leaves in the hands of fools," said Tidman sagely, "there's some sense in the old fairy tales. But the fourth line? how can you get gold from ashes?" Young Ainsleigh rose and began to pace the terrace. "I'm sure I don't know," he said, "that's the curse. If I marry Miss Rayner, I certainly fulfil the third line. She is poor and I am a pauper. Perhaps when the enigma of the third line is solved by such a marriage the fourth line will be made clear." "I shouldn't hang on to that poetry if I were you, Ainsleigh. Let some one else solve the third line, and the fourth also if he likes. My advice to you is to marry a dollar heiress." Rupert looked savage. "I love Miss Rayner, and I marry her, or no one." Tidman selected another cigar carefully. "I think you are wrong," said he decisively, "you have only a small income it's true, but you have this grand old place, a fine old name, and you ain't bad-looking. I guess Miss Jonathan of N'Yr'k would just jump at you." "I love Olivia Rayner," repeated Ainsleigh doggedly. "But the obstacles my dear Don Quixote," argued the Major lighting the cigar, "you are poor and she, at the most, will inherit only a few hundreds a year from that aunt of hers. And that mass of granite Miss Wharf, don't like you, nor does her companion, the Pewsey cat." "Why do you call her a cat--the harmless creature."