"You are speaking of the newly 'discovered' ones of course," said Lucio--"Yes, they are a weedy collection. I have sometimes thought that out of pure philanthropy I would start a bon-bon manufactory, and employ them to write mottoes for the crackers. It would keep them out of mischief and provide them with a little pocket-money, for as matters stand they do not make a farthing by their books. But I do not call them 'poets' at all,--they are mere rhymers. One or two real poets do exist, but, like the prophets of Scripture, they are not 'in society,' nor can they get their logs rolled by any of their contemporaries. They are not favourites with any 'set'; that is why I am afraid my dear friend Tempest will never be accepted as the genius he is; society will be too fond of him to let him go down into dust and ashes to gather the laurel." "It is not necessary to go down into dust and ashes for that," I said. "I assure you it is!--" he answered gaily--"Positively imperative. The laurel flourishes best so,--it will not grow in a hot-house." At that moment Diana Chesney approached. "Lady Elton would like to hear you sing, prince--" she said--"Will you give us that pleasure? Do! Something quite simple, you know,--it will set our nerves straight after your terribly beautiful music! You'd hardly believe it perhaps,--but I really feel quite unstrung!" He folded his hands with a droll air of penitence. "Forgive me!" he said, "I'm always, as the church service says, doing those things I ought not to do." Miss Chesney laughed, a trifle nervously. "Oh, I forgive you!" she replied--"On condition that you sing." "I obey!" and with that he turned again to the piano, and playing a strange wild minor accompaniment sang the following stanzas: Sleep, my Belovëd, sleep! Be patient!--we shall keep Our secret closely hid Beneath the coffin-lid,-- There is no other place in earth or air For such a love as ours, or such despair! And neither hell nor heaven shall care to win Our loathëd souls, rejoicing in their sin! Sleep!--for my hand is sure,-- The cold steel bright and pure Strikes through thy heart and mine Shedding our blood like wine;-- Sin's sweetness is too sweet, and if the shame Of love must be our curse, we hurl the blame Back on the gods who gave us love with breath And tortured us from passion into death! This strange song, sung in the most glorious of baritones, full and rich, and vibrating with power and sweetness, had a visibly thrilling effect upon us all. Again we were struck dumb with surprise and something like fear,--and again Diana Chesney broke the silence. "You call that simple!" she said, half petulantly.