He wore a flame-coloured mantle that hung about him in heavy folds, and under that a tight yellow doublet; his hair drooped smoothly, there was a bright colour in his face, and his eyes sparkled.

“Ye are merry,” he mocked, glancing round him. “Will you that I play or sing?” He looked, in his direct burning way at Jacobea, and she answered hastily —

“Certes, with all my heart — the air is hot — and thick — to-night.”

Dirk laughed, and Theirry stared at him bewildered, so utterly had his demeanour changed; he was gay now, radiant; he leant against the wall in the centre of them and glanced from one silent face to another.

“I can play rarely,” he smiled.

Jacobea took an instrument from among the cushions in the window-seat; it was red, with a heart-shaped body, a long neck and three strings.

“You can play this?” she asked in a half-frightened manner.

“Ay.” Dirk came forward and took it. “I will sing you a fine tune, surely.”

Theirry was something of a musician himself, but he had never heard that Dirk had any such skill; he said nothing, however; a sense of helplessness was upon him; the atmosphere of gloom and horror that he felt held him chained and gagged.

Dirk returned to his place against the wall; Sybilla had dropped the red lily on to her lap; they were all looking at him.

“I will sing you the tune of a foolish lady,” he smiled.

His shadow was heavy on the wall behind him; the dark purple hues of the tapestry threw into brilliant relief the flame hues of his robe and the clear pale colour of his strange face; he held the instrument across his knees and commenced playing on it with the long bow Jacobea had given him; an irregular quick melody arose, harsh and jeering.

After he had played a while he began to sing, but in a chant under his breath, so that the quality of his voice was not heard.

He sang strange meaningless words at first; the four listening sat very still; only Sybilla had picked up her sewing, and her fingers rose and fell steadily as the bodkin glittered over the red lily.

Theirry hid his face in his hands; he hated the place, the woman quietly sewing, the dark-faced man beside him; he even hated the image of Jacobea, that he saw, as clearly as if he looked at her, brightly before him.

Dirk broke into a little doggerel rhyme, every word of which was hard and clear.

“The turkis in my fine spun hair Was brought to me from Barbarie.

My pointed shield is rouge and vair, Where mullets three shine royallie.

Now if he guessed.

He need not wait in poor estate, But on his breast

Wear all my state and be my mate.

For sick for very love am I.

My heart is weak to kiss his cheek; But he is low, and I am high.

I cannot speak, for I am weak.”

Jacobea put the cat among the cushions and rose; she had a curious set smile on her lips. “Do you call that the rhyme of a foolish lady?” she asked.

“Ay, for if she had offered her love, surely it had not been refused,” answered Dirk, dragging the bow across the strings.

“You think so?” said Jacobea in a shrinking tone.

“Mark you, she was a rich lady,” smiled Dirk, “and fair enough, and young and gentle, and he was poor; so I think, if she had not been so foolish, she might have been his second wife.”

At these words Theirry looked up; he saw Jacobea standing in a bewildered fashion, as if she knew not whether to go or stay, and in her eyes an unmistakable look of amazement and horror.

“The rhyme said nothing of the first wife,” remarked Sybilla, without looking up from the red lily.

“The rhyme says very little,” answered Dirk. “It is an old story — the squire had a wife, but if the lady had told her love belike he had found himself a widower.”

Jacobea touched the steward’s wife on the shoulder.

“Dear heart,” she said, “I am weary — very weary with doing nought. And it is late — and the place strange — to-night — at least”— she gave a trembling smile —“I feel it — strange — so — good even.”

Sybilla rose, Jacobea’s lips touched her on the forehead.

The steward watched them; Jacobea, the taller of the two, stooping to kiss his wife. Theirry got to his feet; the chatelaine raised her head and looked towards him.

“To-morrow I will bid you God speed, sirs;” her blue eyes glanced aside at Dirk, who had moved to the door by the fire-placer and held it open for her; she looked back at Theirry, then round in silence and coloured swiftly.

Sybilla glanced at the sand clock against the wall.

“Yea, it is near midnight. I will come with you.” She put her arm round Jacobea’s waist, and smiled backwards over her shoulder at Theirry; so they went, the sound of their garments on the stairs making a faint soft noise; the little cat rose from her cushions, stretched herself, and followed them.

Sebastian picked up the red silk lily that his wife had flung down on the cushions; the candles were guttering to the iron sockets, making the light in the chamber still dimmer, the corners still more deeply obscured with waving shadows.

“You know your chamber,” said the steward to Dirk. “You will find me here in the morning. Good-night.”

He took a bunch of keys from his belt and swung them in his hand.

“Good-night,” said Theirry heavily.

Dirk smiled, and threw himself into the vacated window-seat.

The steward crossed the room to the door by which they had entered; he did not look back, though both were watching him; the door closed after him violently, and they were alone in the vast darkening hall.

“This is fine hospitality,” sneered Dirk. “Is there none to light us to our chamber?” Theirry walked to and fro with an irregular agitated step.

“What was that song of yours?” he asked. “What did you mean? What ails this place and these people? She never looked at me.”

Dirk pulled at the strings of the instrument he still held; they emitted little wailing sounds.

“She is pretty, your chatelaine,” he said. “I did not think to see her so soon. You love her — or you might love her.”

His bright eyes glanced across the shadowy space between them.

“Ye mock and sneer at me,” answered Theirry hotly, “because she is a great dame. I do not love her, and yet —”

“And yet —?” goaded Dirk.

“If our arts can do anything for us — could they not — if I wished it — some day — get this lady for me?”

He paused, his hand to his pale brow.

“You shall never have her,” said Dirk, biting his under lip.

Theirry turned on him violently.

“You cannot tell. Of what use to serve Evil for nought?”

“Ye have done with remorse belike?” mocked Dirk. “Ye have ceased to long for priests and holy water?”

“Ay,” said Theirry recklessly, “I shall not falter again — I will take these means — any means —”

“To attain — her?” Dirk got up from the window-seat and rose to his full height.

Theirry gave him a sick look.

“I will not bandy taunts with you. I must sleep a little.”

“They have given us the first chamber ye come to, ascending those stairs,” answered Dirk quietly. “There is a lamp, and the door is set open. Good-night.”

“You will not come?” asked Theirry sullenly.

“Nay. I will sleep here.”

“Why? You are strange to-night.”

Dirk smiled unpleasantly.

“There is a reason. A good reason. Get to bed.” Theirry left him without an answer, and closed the door upon him.

When he had gone, and there was no longer a sound of his footstep, a rustle of the arras to tell he had been, a great change swept over Dirk’s face; a look of agony, of distraction contorted his proud features, he paced softly here and there, twisting his hands together and lifting his eyes blindly to the painted ceiling.

Half the candles had flickered out; the others smoked and flared in the sockets; the rain dripping on the window-sill without made an insistent sound.

Dirk paused before the vast bare hearth.

“He shall never have her,” he said in a low, steady voice as if he saw and argued with some personage facing him. “No. You will prevent it. Have I not served you well? Ever since I left the convent? Did you not promise me great power — as the black letters of the forbidden books swam before my eyes; did I not hear you whispering, whispering?”

He turned about as t............