Faith, golden crown of the ! Self-mesmerism, subtle alchemy of the mind! How the balance of belief swings between these twain!  
A spiritual conception born in a woman's brain is as a savour of rich spices sweetening all the world. How great a power of stirs in one small body! A pillar of fire, a shining grail. She will bring the finest that hang upon her , the of , the of pity. She will cast all her store of gold into the lap of Fate. Give to her some radiant dream of hope, and she may prove the most splendid idealist, even if she do not prove a wise one. Remember the women who watched about the Cross of Christ.
 
There had been trickery in the miracle, a of flesh in the vision. The , in the ruck of religion, had suffered herself to be personated by a clever little "player" from Gilderoy, aided and idealised by a certain notorious who dealt in magic, was not above aiding ecclesiastical mummeries on occasions, and for the solemn production of miracles. A priest's box, a secret door at the back of the altar used in bygone days for the manipulation of a wonder-working image, musicians, , and Greek fire. These had made the possible. As for Fulviac, plotter, he was as grave as an abbot over the business; his words were ; he of the of Heaven with bated breath.
 
It was a age, touched with phantasy and with magic. were casketed in gold and silver; holy blood amazed with yearly liquefactions the souls of the ; dreamers gazed into mirrors, crystals, finger-nails, for visions of heaven. Jewels were poured in streams at the white feet of the Madonna. It was all done with rare mysticism, colour, and rich music. The moon ruled marriage, corn, and kine. The saints, like a concourse of angels, walked with splendour through the wilds.
 
As for the girl Yeoland, she had the heart of a woman in the noblest measure, a red heart, pure yet . The world waxed prophetic that season. She was as full of dreams and phantasies as an astrologer's missal. Nothing amazed her, and yet all earth was mysterious. The wind spoke in magic ; the trees were oracular; the stars, white hands tracing symbols in the sky. She was borne above herself on the of , heard wings sweep the air, saw the of their robes passing the portals of the night. Mysticism moved through the world like the sound of lutes over a moonlit sea.
 
One March morning, Fulviac came to her in the northern of the cliff. Yeoland had masses of cloth and threads of gold upon her knees, for she was broidering a banner, the banner of the Maid of Gilderoy. Her eyes were full of violet shadow. She wore a cross over her bosom, emeralds set in silver; a rosary, on her wrist, told how her prayers kept alternate rhythm with her fingers. Fulviac the knee to the crucifix upon the wall, sat down near her on a rich bench of carved wood.
 
The man was in a beneficent mood, and beamed on her like a lusty summer. He had tidings on his tongue, tidings that he with the craft of an . It was easy to mark when the world trundled well with his humour. He put forth smiles like a great oak whose in the sun.
 
"You will tire yourself, little sister."
 
She looked at him with one of her solemn glances, a glance that spoke of vigils, soul-searchings, and prayer.
 
"My fingers tire before my heart," she said to him.
 
"Rest, rest."
 
"Do I seem weary to you?"
 
", you are fresh as the dawn."
 
He brushed back the hair from off his forehead, and the lines about his mouth .
 
"I have news from the west."
 
"Ah!"
 
"We gather and spread like fire in a forest. The mountain men are with us, ready to roll down from the hills with hauberk and sword. In two months Malgo will have sent the cross through all the west."
 
The golden thread ran through the girl's white fingers; the of her rosary ; she seemed to be weaving the destiny of a kingdom into the device upon her banner.
 
"How is it with us here?" she asked him.
 
"I have a thousand men and true camped upon the cliff. are coming in fast, like steel to a magnet. In a month we shall outbulk a Roman legion."
 
"And Gilderoy?"
 
"Gilderoy and Geraint will give us a score thousand pikemen."
 
"The stars fight for us."
 
Fulviac took her from the carved bench and began to thrum the chords of an old song.
 
"Spears crash, and swords clang,
Fame maddens the world.
Come battle and love.
Iseult--
Ah, Iseult."
He broke away with a last snap at the , and set the lute aside.
 
"Bear with me," he said.
 
Her dark eyes questioned him over her banner.
 
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