Patricia was not a particularly imaginative girl, considering that
she was of Irish descent and blood. But there was something in the
clean-shaven face of the young naval officer which appealed to her.
The clasp of his arms thrilled her, and although, on recovering her
senses, she extricated herself from them hurriedly, yet for days she
seemed to feel them round her. Basil was so strong and kind-hearted
and virile, that all Patricia’s femininity went out to him, and he
became her ideal of what a man should be. Tall and slim, well-made and
wiry, young Dane was as handsome and clean-limbed a man as anyone
could meet in a day’s march. His hair was brown, his skin was tanned
by sea and wind and sun, and his eyes were hazel in colour. He had a
firm chin and a well-cut mouth, which Patricia could well imagine
could be set firmly at times. And, indeed, when she opened her eyes to
find herself in his arms, the mouth was stern enough. It was evident
that Basil did not at all approve of his brother’s experiments.

Theodore protested that he had intended no experiment. “I simply burnt
the incense to dispel the chilly feeling in the atmosphere of the
room,” he declared, “and the scent was too much for Miss Carrol.”

“If that was all,” questioned Basil dryly, “why did Mara come out to
say that you had put Miss Carrol into a trance?”

“Oh, Mara!” Theodore looked disdainful. “You know what crazy things
Mara says when she wakes up to ordinary life.”

“Don’t talk like that, Theodore.”

“Well, then, don’t quarrel with me the moment you arrive home,”
retorted Theodore, and Patricia, drying her wet face with her
handkerchief, saw the latent animosity between these two ill-matched
brothers leap to life. To throw oil on the troubled waters of
fraternal strife, she began to laugh–somewhat artificially, it is
true, but still sufficiently naturally to show that she was now
entirely herself and not hysterical. “It was silly of me to faint,”
she said in a matter-of-fact way. “Don’t trouble about me, Mr.
Dane”–she spoke to Basil. “I am all right. It was my fault, not Mr.
Theodore’s, that I lost my senses. He was trying no experiments.”

“There, you see,” said Theodore, with a triumphant glance at his

“You shouldn’t burn these strong perfumes,” said Basil angrily, and
walked away without looking at Patricia. He evidently was annoyed that
the girl should champion Theodore’s doings in this pronounced way.

“One moment, Miss Carrol,” said Theodore, when Patricia was about to
depart also, for it was close upon the dinner-hour and she had to
dress. “You called my brother Mr. Dane. That is wrong. I am the
eldest, and _my_ name is Mr. Dane, whereas he is called simply Mr.

Patricia heard the venomous tone of his voice and saw the angry look
he darted at Basil, as that young gentleman stepped into the house.
Her first inclination was to make an angry retort, but when she
considered swiftly how wrong it would be to increase the enmity
between these brethren, she curbed her temper, and replied
deliberately: “You must excuse my mistake. I shall not make it again.
When did Mr. Basil arrive?”

“He rushed into the room just when you fainted. Mara told him and he
took you up in his arms and carried you out here into the fresh air.”

“I did not faint,” said Patricia, looking at him searchingly. “And
although I defended you to smooth things over, you really did try and
experiment on me. Is that not so?”

“You are such a sensible girl that I can admit as much,” said
Theodore, with an ironical bow. “Yes, I did use the perfume to put you
into a trance. I wished you to–to—-” He hesitated.

“To look for the danger which Mara said threatened you,” she finished.

“Yes. How do you know?”

“Because when I was miles and miles away, bathed in a flood of light,
I heard your voice very clearly, telling me to search.”

Theodore gazed at her eagerly. “So you can bring back consciously what
you see on the other plane. Did you learn what this danger was?”

“No. Some force drew me back.”

“Basil.” Theodore clenched his hand and his face grew black. “If he
had not interfered, you might have found out.”

“I doubt it; and, moreover, if I had found out, I should not have told

“Why not?” he asked, astonished.

“Because I don’t like these experiments.”

“But you ought to. Many people’s souls depart and see things and can
explain them when in a trance. But few like yourself can bring back
consciously what they see. Tell me what you—-”

“I shall tell you nothing, because I have nothing to tell. But I ask
you to explain one thing to me?”

“What is that?”

“Why did Mara dance towards the door. I saw her as I became

Dane looked worried. “I don’t know. When she smells that perfume she
always acts like that. It isn’t a dance exactly, but it is certainly a
measured movement. I don’t understand Mara,” he confessed candidly.
“She has powers which are not under her own control. I could control
them, but she will not allow me to.”

“She is quite right,” said Miss Carrol emphatically, “and never again
will I allow you to put me in a trance. It is dangerous,” and with a
nod she also went into the house.

Theodore Dane, with a lowering face and a savage gleam in his blue
eyes, stood where he was, with bowed head, considering what the coming
of Basil had cost him. He was greatly attracted to Patricia, not by
love for her beauty or sweet nature, but because she possessed certain
psychic powers which he wished to control. She could, as he now knew,
go and return consciously, and that capability showed an advanced
state of spiritual evolution. With such a messenger to send into the
Unseen, since he could not go himself and Mara refused to obey him, he
could accomplish great things. Had he been left alone with the girl,
for a certain period, he might have managed to sap her will power and
render her his slave. But the coming of Basil changed all that. Basil
was young and handsome and ardent, and with a sailor’s keen sense of
beauty, would be certain to admire, and perhaps love, Patricia. If
this was so, Basil certainly would prevent any more experiments being
made, and Theodore’s evil heart was filled with black rage at the
unexpected thwarting of his aims.

“Curse him!” he muttered, alluding to his brother. “He always crosses
my path and puts me wrong.” And as he spoke he raised his head to
survey the goodly heritage which assuredly Basil would gain in the
end. “I shall not be driven from here,” raged Theodore furiously. “I
shall marry the girl and gain the property by getting Basil out of the
way. But how is it to be done with safety to myself? I must think.”

This meant that Theodore intended to draw to him certain evil
counsellors, who, being supernatural, could guide him in the selfish
way which he wished to take. And these powers, being evil, would be
only too glad to minister to his wicked passions, since by doing so
they secured more control of him, and could use him for their own
accursed ends, to sow discord on the earth-plane. But Theodore, not
being possessed of psychic powers, could not come directly into
contact with these beings so malignant and strong. He was obliged to
find a medium, and since Mara would not act in that capacity, and
since Patricia was lost to him, or would be, through the influence of
Basil, the man’s thoughts turned to old Brenda Lee, the grandmother of
Isa, to whom Harry Pentreddle was engaged. She was accredited with
being a witch, and possessed powers which Theodore knew only too well
to be real. He had made use of her before, for there was an evil bond
between them, and he now intended to make use of her again. Pending a
near visit to her and a consultation of those creatures he intended to
summon to his assistance, Theodore smoothed his face to smiles and
went in to dinner.

It was a very pleasant meal on this especial evening. Squire Colpster
appeared to grow young in the cheery atmosphere of Basil’s strong and
virile youth. The sailor of twenty-five was so gay and bright, and
talked in so interesting a manner of what he had seen and where he had
been, that even the dreamy Mara was aroused to unexpected vivacity.
And Theodore, with rage in his heart and smiles on his face, behaved
so amiably and in such a truly brotherly fashion, that Basil and he
were quite hand in glove before the time came to retire to rest. The
younger brother, straight, honest-natured and kind-hearted, did not
credit Theodore with crooked ways, although he knew that his relative
was not so straight as he might be. But Basil, calling him internally
a crank, set down his deviation from the normal to his secluded life
and uncanny studies.

“You ought to go about the world more, Theo,” he said at dinner. “It
would do you a lot of good.”

“Perhaps I may travel some day,” said Mr. Dane, in a would-be genial
manner. “Just now I have so much interesting work in hand that I don’t
want to move.”

“Some of your cloudy schemes?”

“They are not so very cloudy, although you may think them to be so,”
said the elder brother significantly, and there was a look in his blue
eyes which made Patricia move uneasily. The girl’s instinct, let alone
what she had seen when she recovered from her trance, showed her
clearly how deadly was the enmity between these brothers. But it is
only just to say that the dividing feeling was rather on the part of
Theodore than on the part of Basil. The latter only mistrusted his
brother as a slippery and unscrupulous man, who was to be avoided, but
he did not seek to do him any injury. On the other hand, Theodore
hated Basil with cold, calculating malignancy, and was on the
watch–as Patricia by her sixth sense perceived–to hurt him in
every possible way. But nothing of this was apparent to the eyes
of Mr. Colpster as he sat at the head of the table, smiling at his
newly-returned nephew.

“Tell me,” said Mr. Colpster, when Mara and Patricia had retired to
the drawing-room, and the three men were smoking comfortably over
their coffee, “tell me exactly what happened about the emerald?”

“I can tell you nothing more than what I set forth in my letter,”
replied Basil, his frank face clouding over. “I went from Nagasaki to
Kitzuki, when I arrived in Japan, and offered to buy the emerald. The
priests laughed at me for daring to make such an offer, and then told
me that the emerald had been stolen.”

“Whom by?”

“They could not say. And yet,” added Basil reflectively, “I believe
they knew something, although they declined to speak. Indeed, because
of my offer for the jewel, they believed that I had something to do
with the theft.”

“What nonsense!” said Theodore lightly. “The very fact that you
offered to buy the jewel openly, showed that you did not take it.”

“The priests thought that I did that to throw them off the scent. I
was waylaid one night and searched. It might have gone hard with me,
as I had a nasty knock on the head. But Akira came along and saved


“I should rather say Count Akira,” explained the young sailor. “He is
in the Japanese Diplomatic Service, so he told me, and is of high
rank. His father was a famous daimio over thirty years ago, when Japan
was mediæval, and Akira would be a daimio also, if things hadn’t
changed. As it is, he is high in favour with the Mikado and is very
clever. He certainly saved my life, for my assailants would have
killed me had he not come along. However, you will hear all about it
from his own lips.”

The Squire sat up alertly. “Is he coming down here?”

“With your permission, sir. I told him I should ask if you would allow
him to come. If you agree, I can write to him; he is at the Japanese
Embassy in London, and can come at once.”

“Write to him by all means,” said Mr. Colpster excitedly. “He may be
able to tell me about the emerald.”

“I don’t think he knows anything about it, save that it was one of
the treasures of the Kitzuki Temple, and had been given to the then
high-priest centuries ago by Mikado Go Yojo. Akira is too modern to
bother about such things. But as a loyal Japanese, he certainly
mourned that the emerald should have been lost. I wonder if it will
ever be found?”

“It has been found,” said Theodore quickly, “and is now on its way to

Basil let the cigarette fall from his well-cut lips. “What do you

“Oh, that is Theodore’s idea, although I don’t entirely agree with
it,” said the Squire impatiently. “It’s a long story and has to do
with the murder.”

“Ah, poor Martha!” said Basil regretfully. “I am so sorry to hear of
her terrible death. I was so very fond of her and she of me. I read a
lot about the tragedy in the newspapers, but there is still much that
I should like to hear. Particularly how Miss Carrol, who was one of
the witnesses at the inquest, comes to be here as Mara’s companion.”

“I met her when I went up to the inquest,” said Colpster quietly. “And
as I had known her father, Colonel Carrol, at Sandhurst, I invited her
to come to Beckleigh as housekeeper and Mara’s companion. The poor
girl had no money and no friends, so my offer was a godsend to her.”

“I am glad you made it, sir,” said Basil, heartily. “She is one of the
very prettiest and most charming girls I have ever seen.”

“Don’t fall in love with her, Basil,” said his brother, with a
disagreeable laugh, “as uncle here wants you to marry Mara and inherit
the property.”

“Oh, I don’t think Mara would marry me,” said Basil lightly. “And, in
any case, I disbelieve in the marriages of first cousins. Besides, it
would be better for you, Theo, to get the property, as I am always

“The one who marries Mara, or who recovers the emerald, shall have the
estate,” said the Squire decidedly. “You both have known that for a
long time. But we can talk of that later. Meantime, you ask about the
emerald. Well, it was stolen from Patricia on the night Martha was

“The deuce! What has Miss Carrol to do with it?” Basil sat up quickly,
and his hazel eyes brightened. Theodore observed with a thrill of
annoyance that any reference to Patricia seemed to stir up his
brother, and augured ill from the interest displayed by the sailor.

“Listen,” said the Squire in slightly pompous tone, and related all
that he knew from the time Patricia had left Mrs. Pentreddle in the
drawing-room of The Home of Art, to the time she had returned without
the jewel and found the old woman a corpse. Basil, ceasing to smoke,
listened in breathless silence, and drew a long breath when the
interesting story was ended.

“What a perfectly ripping girl!” he ejaculated, talking of Patricia
the moment Mr. Colpster ceased; “so brave and cool-headed.”

“Not very cool-headed, seeing she lost the emerald,” said Theodore

Basil nodded absently. “It was a pity she took it out of the box. Of
course, that talk of a drawing-power is nonsense.”

“Perfect nonsense from your material point of view,” said the elder
brother with a sneer. “But in my opinion some priest who followed
snatched the jewel–stole it, in fact, and now has taken it back to

Basil shook his head. “I never heard either at Kitzuki or Kamakura
that anyone was suspected. And I don’t approve of the word stolen. If,
indeed, a priest of the Kitzuki Temple followed the thief and
recovered the emerald in the way you state, he had a perfect right to
do so.”

“The emerald is ours,” said the Squire, fuming.

“Pardon me, uncle, but you know that I have never agreed with you on
that point,” said Basil significantly. “Amyas Colpster gave the jewel
to Queen Elizabeth for a knighthood, so our family has no right to get
the emerald back again. Unless, indeed,” added the sailor, with an
afterthought, “the jewel is freely given; and I don’t think, seeing
that store is set by it at Kitzuki, that such a gift will be made. But
who could have stolen the emerald?”

“Miss Carrol suspects Harry Pentreddle,” said Theodore, lighting a

“Ah! it might be so. I heard that his ship was touching at Japan.
Martha wrote to Hong Kong and told me. But why should he steal it?”

“And why should he wish to give it secretly to his mother?” questioned
the Squire. “We wish to learn both those things, Basil, my boy.”

“Ask Harry, then?”

“We don’t know where he is. He went to Amsterdam, I fancy, when he was
last heard of. He can’t know that his mother has been murdered, or he
would have certainly returned long ago.”

“He’s sure to turn up sooner or later,” said Basil easily, and rising
to his feet. “Poor Martha! she was a good friend to me. Where is she

“In the churchyard on the moors, beside her husband,” said Colpster,
also getting on his feet. “I am sorry myself, as Martha was such a
good housekeeper. But Patricia is succeeding very well.”

“And, moreover, is more agreeable to look at,” sneered Theodore.

“What beastly things you say!” observed his brother sharply. “I
haven’t seen you for a year, Theodore, but your manners have not

“I paid Miss Carrol a compliment.”

“I think that she can dispense with your compliments,” retorted the
fiery sailor; “and, in any case, you spoke slightly of the dead.
Martha was very dear to me, and should be to you also. When our mother
died, Martha stood in her place. Remember that, if you please.”

“Boys! boys! Don’t quarrel the moment you meet,” said the Squire.

“It’s Basil’s fault.”

“It is the fault of your bitter tongue, Theo,” said the younger Dane,
trying to curb the anger with which his brother always inspired him.
“However, I don’t wish any ill-feeling. Let us go to the drawing-room
and ask Miss Carrol to give us some music.”

“Always Miss Carrol,” murmured Theodore resentfully, and felt that he
hated his brother more than ever. All the same, he threw down his
half-smoked cigar and moved with the other two men towards the door.

The Squire placed his hands over the shoulders of his nephews and
walked between them proudly. “There are only three of us to represent
the family,” he said affectionately, “since Mara, being a girl,
doesn’t count so much as a man. We must stick together and recover the
emerald, so that our good fortune may return. And heaven only knows
how badly I need good luck! There’s that lawsuit over the Hendle
water-rights, and a bad hay-season with the continuous rain–not here,
but miles away–and–and—-”

“If your luck depends upon the emerald,” said Theodore crossly, “it
will never return. It is on its way to Japan, I tell you.”

“Well, we have one piece of good luck,” cried Basil gaily. “Miss
Carrol is in the house.”

“Damn you!” thought the elder brother amiably. “I’d like to wring your
neck, you self-satisfied beast.”

With the arrival of Basil Dane, life became much brighter and
more lively at Beckleigh. The young sailor was active-minded and
light-hearted, so that he was always glad to provide amusement for
himself and others. He took Patricia and Mara out sailing in the fairy
bay, and walked with them across the windy spaces of the moors to view
various centres of interest. In the evenings, having a sweet tenor
voice, he sang to them, while Miss Carrol played his accompaniments,
and, of course, he had much to tell them about foreign parts. No one
could possibly be dull while Basil was in the house, and even the
Squire left his beloved history of the Colpster family to enjoy the
breezy humours of his favourite nephew. The old house awoke, as it
were, from sleep, to enjoy a brief holiday of innocent amusement.

But although Basil was attentive to Mara, since he greatly wished to
arouse her from those dreams which set her apart from others, he gave
Patricia most of his company. From the moment he had set eyes on her,
he had been attracted by the beauty of her face. Now that he knew her
better, and found that she had a heart of gold, he frankly fell in
love with such perfections. And very wisely, for Patricia was a rare
specimen of her sex. She was not, on her part, averse to his wooing,
as, of all the men she had ever met, Basil appeared to be the most
trustworthy and fascinating. It was the old story of love at first
sight, that miracle at which material-minded people scoff, but which
is a veritable truth in spite of such scepticism.

Theodore, needless to say, was not pleased to see the fulfilment of
his prophecy. He had known, the moment Basil arrived, that something
of this silly sort–so he phrased it–would happen. Knowing nothing
of love himself, for his selfishness swallowed up all other qualities
in his somewhat narrow nature, he had scanty patience with this folly.
He wished to get Patricia entirely to himself, because of her rare
psychic qualities, and to do so was even willing to marry her. Of
course, by such an act, he would cut himself off from all chance of
acquiring the property, since it was very evident that the Mikado
Jewel would never be found. Theodore was certain that it had gone back
to Japan, and there would be no chance of its being stolen a second
time. This being the case, only by marrying his cousin could he secure
Beckleigh and carry out his design of forming a school of Occultism.
But this ambition–as has before been stated–he was willing to
surrender, provided that he could dominate Patricia and her
mediumistic powers. With those at his disposal, he felt that he could
do much to forward his selfish desires. Moreover–and this was a
factor also in his decision–Mara disliked him so intensely that she
certainly would never marry him.

But none of Theodore’s feelings appeared in his looks and manners. To
reach his ends he had to play a comedy, and did so with the skill of a
clever actor. His face was all smiles, his behaviour most deferential,
and he carefully avoided any possible quarrel with his brother. Also,
he did not speak of his occult studies, since a discussion of such
things was not welcome to others. Theodore, in fact, appeared in quite
a social _rôle_, and seconded his brother in promoting a brighter and
more active state of things in the old mansion. He was clever at
conjuring, and gave exhibitions in the drawing-room when the girls
grew weary of music and conversation. And always he was polite and
genial. So much did he impose upon Basil and Mara and the Squire that
they believed Theodore had–as the saying is–turned over a new leaf.
But Patricia did not credit as genuine this too suave demeanour. She
knew, if no one else did, that the leopard could not change his spots,
and what is more, that this particular leopard did not wish to.

Beckleigh was certainly the Vale of Avilion, for in spite of the bad
weather prevailing in almost every other county in England, this
favoured spot preserved, more or less, a serene calm. Of course, it
rained at times, but not very long and not very hard. As the Squire
had said, his hay-crops at Hendle were completely ruined by the wet,
and he anticipated a great loss, which he could ill afford in his
straitened circumstances. But the flower gardens round his family seat
bloomed in almost constant sunshine. Also, when snows fell–it was now
close upon Christmas, and the hard frosts were coming–they spread a
mantle of white on the moors above, but did not descend upon
Beckleigh. It is true that, owing to the season, many of the trees in
the demesne were leafless, but a goodly number, being foreign, were
evergreen, and still clothed themselves in leaves. Throughout the
winter, when severe conditions prevailed on the high lands, the
climate of this little nook by the sea maintained a mildness and
warmth little short of miraculous. The place might have been situated
on the Riviera.

Patricia thought that these extraordinary circumstances–for an
English winter–were due to the great red cliff which sheltered the
vale. During the day it drew in much heat into its breast, and
breathed it forth at night when the airs grew chilly. It was like
being warmed by a good-humoured volcano, she thought, for Patricia,
after the manner of Browning, always humanized the forces of Nature.
But undoubtedly she was right in her surmise, for the solar fire
constantly drawn to the cliff and radiated from the cliff, created an
artificial summer, which endured throughout the year. Beckleigh was
like the Garden of Eden for climate and fruitfulness and beauty, and
Theodore was the intruding snake. But as yet, even to herself, she did
not dare to confess that she was a modern Eve to Basil’s Adam. Or, if
a passing thought of this nature did cross her mind, she blushed and
did not dwell on it. If she had, she would never, in her maidenly
confusion, have been able to meet the eye of her lover. Yes, it had
come that far: he was her lover.

Of course, Theodore, always on the watch, saw that the pair were
falling deeper in love daily, and savagely felt that he could do
nothing to prevent a happy ending to the romance. The Squire might
want Basil to marry his cousin, but Mara merely loved the young man in
a sisterly fashion, and did not dream of any closer tie. Colpster was
not the man to force his daughter’s affections even for the sake of
the family. So it was probable that, if Mara refused Basil, which she
assuredly would do if he offered himself, and if Patricia accepted the
young sailor, Mr. Colpster would settle the Beckleigh property on his
daughter, and give up his fancy of re-establishing the family.
Moreover, he was now strangely fond of Patricia, and would be glad to
have her for his niece by marriage. Look what way he could and would,
Theodore saw that his chances of gaining either Beckleigh or Miss
Carrol were very small indeed.

It was then that he determined to seek out Brenda Lee and see what the
future had in store for him. After Mara’s warning, he had always been
haunted by a sense of ever-nearing danger, although he could not tell
from which quarter it would come. Granny Lee would know, however, as
she was a clairvoyant and could look into the seeds of Time as did
Macbeth’s weird women. Of course, in this material age, most people
contemptuously dismiss such things as hanky-panky, but that did not
matter to Theodore. Sceptics might refuse to shape their course by
such a vague chart, but he knew positively from experience that, under
certain circumstances, the devil could speak truly. And if Granny Lee,
with her malignant disposition and greedy venom, was not the devil,
who was? Granny Lee, therefore, was the one to solve riddles, and to
Granny Lee Theodore went a few days before Christmas. Yet, so as to
impress upon his uncle that he was going on a harmless and friendly
errand, the young man sought him out in the seclusion of his library.

“I am going to see Isa Lee, and ask if she has heard anything about
Harry since his return to England,” said Theodore abruptly.

“You are going to Hendle?”

“No. Isa, so I have been told, is stopping for Christmas with her
grandmother in that miserable hut on the moors. I can go and return in
three hours.”

“I should like to come with you,” said the Squire alertly. “I am most
anxious to know the whereabouts of Harry Pentreddle. We must question
him about the emerald. I wonder if he really knows anything?”

“I am perfectly certain that he does,” rejoined Theodore, positively;
“if he did not, he would not have stayed away from Isa. But I do not
advise you to come with me, Uncle George, as there is deep snow on the
moors, and you are not so young as you were. Besides, I can ask all
necessary questions.”

“Well, do so. If you can recover the emerald, you know what your
reward will be,” said the Squire, and turned again to decipher an old
document, which dealt with the adventures of Amyas Colpster in Peru.

Theodore shrugged his big shoulders and departed with a grimace. Much
as he would have liked to secure the emerald, if only to inherit
Beckleigh, which was a kind of Naboth’s vineyard in his greedy eyes,
he felt quite sure that Harry Pentreddle could tell him little that
would be helpful. Harry undoubtedly had stolen the Jewel, and had
given it to Patricia as his mother’s emissary; but having departed for
Amsterdam almost immediately, he would know nothing of its unexpected
loss. Apparently he did not even know that his mother had been so
barbarously murdered. If he did know, he assuredly would have returned
to avenge her, in spite of any danger there might be to him from the
guardians of the great gem. And that danger was now, as Theodore fully
believed, a thing of the past. The emerald had been recovered, so it
was only natural to suppose that the priests of the Kitzuki Temple
would leave well alone. With these thoughts in his scheming mind,
Theodore, well wrapped up in furs, mounted the winding road which led
to the moors.

The vast grassy spaces were covered more or less deeply with snow, but
Dane, accustomed to the country since his boyhood, and possessing
great strength, made light of the drifts. Far away on the dazzling
expanse, brilliantly and blindingly bright in the sunshine, he saw the
many dark dots, which marked the village, near the cromlech, where
Mrs. Lee had her home. A glance backward over the cliff showed him the
verdant acres of Beckleigh, and a flash of colour where late flowers
still bloomed. There was no snow below, but only emerald swards and
green woods running to the verge of the sapphire bay, where the
wavelets lipped the curved streak of the yellow sands. The contrast
between the summer he was leaving and the winter he was going into
struck Theodore forcibly.

“I wish I could get it all to myself,” he groaned. “Basil is out of it
if he marries Patricia Carrol, and Mara hasn’t the sense to look after
it. I may secure it, after all. But Patricia,” he scowled; “I don’t
want her to become Basil’s wife!” a speech which showed that Theodore
both wished to have his cake and eat it, since he wanted both the girl
and the property.

However, it was useless to moralize over possibilities, so Dane
resolutely struck across the moors, and ploughed manfully through the
drifts. After a mile or so, he came to the high road up which tourists
came to view the rocking stone and the cromlech. This was
comparatively clear, and he had no further difficulty in gaining his
goal. Swiftly walking–and in spite of his great bulk Theodore could
walk swiftly when he chose–he soon arrived at the handful of houses,
sheltered immediately under the brow of the gently swelling hill, or
boss, which marked the highest point of the moors. It was a most
unlikely place for a village, as there seemed to be no chance of its
inhabitants gaining food. But they acted as guides to tourists, drove
them in vehicles from and to Hendle, shepherded droves of Exmoor
ponies, and flocks of hardy sheep, and, if rumour was true, employed
much of their spare time in poaching. The village–Boatwain was its
name–had not a good reputation in general, and amongst its
inhabitants Granny Lee, in particular, had the worst name.

Theodore soon found the tumbledown house in which she lived, and at
the door came upon Isa Lee, just stepping–so she said–to post a
letter. Dane saw his opportunity and took it immediately.

“You are writing to Harry,” he observed, looking at the tall, robust,
deep-bosomed woman, who always reminded him of Wagnerian heroines,
with her fair, flaxen hair and Brunehild aspect.

Isa evidently saw no reason to deny the truth. “Yes, sir,” she
replied, in a deep contralto voice which boomed like a bell.

“Is Harry still abroad?”

“Yes, sir. He is stopping at Amsterdam, hoping to get a ship.”

“Does he know of his mother’s death?”

“Yes,” answered Isa. “I told him, and sent him the papers.”

“What does he say?”

“He intends to return here and pray by her grave.”

Theodore shrugged his shoulders cynically. “He had much better avenge
her death,” was his remark.

“He wants to,” said Isa stolidly; “but he says that he can’t guess who
killed her, and does not know how to begin. He is very sorrowful over
the death, Mr. Dane, as he loved his mother.”

“He doesn’t seem to be so very sorry,” snapped Theodore sharply, “or
he would return and learn who murdered her.”

“I am writing to him to advise him to do so,” said the woman quickly.
“Oh, don’t think that Harry is hard, sir! He is–he is–afraid!”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know: he refuses to tell me, sir.”

Dane knew very well when she said this that Patricia’s suggestion was
a true one. Pentreddle had evidently stolen the jewel and now feared
lest he should be assassinated. But with the recovery of the jewel by
one of the priests–and he believed that there was more than one on
the hunt–all danger had passed. “Isa,” he said, impressively, “go
back and add a postscript to your letter, telling Harry that there is
now no danger, and that the Squire, my uncle, wishes to see him.”

“What about, sir?” asked Isa suddenly, and with an anxious look.

“He wants to talk to him about Mrs. Pentreddle’s death. She was our
housekeeper, you know.”

“Yes, sir, and a grand funeral the Squire gave her,” said the woman,
with a flush, for, like all the lower orders, she attached great
weight to postmortem ceremonies. “He _has_ been kind.”

“Well, he wants to be kinder,” said Theodore, not hesitating to tell a
lie in order to gain his ends. “He has some idea of who killed Martha,
and wishes to talk about it to Harry, who should avenge his mother’s
death. Will you go back and add that to your letter?”

“Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!” said the girl eagerly; “and very glad Harry
will be to hear it, as he has been fretting dreadfully over his
mother’s death. But he did not return because of this danger, whatever
it is. Do you know, sir?”

“I can guess,” answered Theodore significantly, “so you can tell Harry
that he can come quite safely to England. Now go and write your
letter, and say that he is to come back at once. The Squire wishes to
see him at Beckleigh, as he has news for him. Meanwhile, I shall speak
with your grandmother.”

Isa nodded, and stepped aside to allow her grand visitor to enter the
house, although it was scarcely worthy of the name. It was rather a
hovel, and possessed only three rooms–a large one, used for all
living purposes, and two tiny bedrooms. The old hag–she was nothing
else–sat beside a small fire, smoking a short-stemmed clay pipe, and
only vouchsafed Dane a grunt when he greeted her. She was about
eighty-six years of age, but looked even older with her wrinkled,
copper-coloured face and scanty white hair streaming from under a
thrum cap. Her eyes were small, black and piercing, and full of vivid
life. For the rest, she was hunched up in a basket-chair, stroking a
large black cat, and looked a typical witch of James’s time. Perhaps
she dressed for the part and lived up to it, black cat and all, for
she made much money in summer by telling fortunes to tourists. But
undoubtedly her appearance was so old and wicked, that she would have
tasted of the tar-barrel in Stuart days, almost without the formality
of a trial. Granny Lee was a witch in grain, if ever there was a

“Good-day,” said Theodore, sitting down on a chair with no back, while
Isa went into an adjoining bedroom to add the postscript to her
letter. “How do you find yourself this weather, Granny?”

“Mrs. Lee, if you please,” snarled the old woman, glaring at him in a
malignant way and removing the pipe from her almost toothless gums.

“Mrs. Lee then be it; Mrs. Brenda Lee, if you like,” said Dane, who
had his reasons for keeping her in a good temper. “How are you?”

“How should I be in this damned weather? I’m all aches and pains and
they dratted rheumatics.”

“You shouldn’t attend so many Sabbaths,” chuckled Theodore, loosening
his fur coat. “Riding a broom-stick with no clothes on is dangerous at
your age.”

“Leave my age alone, drat ye!” growled the amiable old lady, beginning
to cut a fresh fill of tobacco with a clasp-knife. “As to Sabbaths, I
don’t believe in ’em, or I’d ha’ gone long ago. There ain’t any now,
and I don’t believe as there ever was. I don’t go to Them, but They
come to me.”

Theodore cast a bold look round the miserable room. “Are They here

Granny Lee chuckled in her turn. “Mine don’t need to show when you’re
here, Mr. Dane. You’ve brought your lot along with you, and the
biggest of them is looking over your shoulder at this blessed moment.”

The big man turned his head, but, of course, not being gifted with
mediumistic powers, could see nothing. “I wish I could have a look at
him,” he said regretfully. “What is he?”

“Just your thought grown big.”

Theodore nodded quite comprehendingly. “Of course, thoughts create
beings on the astral plane out of the essence. What special

“There’s lots of ’em, and none of ’em pleasant,” interrupted Mrs. Lee,
pointing with her pipe-stem. “Yon’s Greed of what belongs to other
folk, an’ he’s not a small one. Then there’s Selfishness,–quite a
giant–and Hatred, and Lust, and Ambition, and Murder—-”

“Why murder? I haven’t murdered any one,” said Dane quickly and

“It’s in your mind. That brother of yours—-”

Theodore ground his teeth. “I’d like to strangle him,” he growled,
“only I might be caught. Yes, I daresay the murder thought is there.”

Knowing what he did about occult matters, he had not the least doubt
but what Mrs. Lee saw his thoughts made visible, since she possessed
the astral vision–what the Celt calls “second sight” and could behold
the Unseen. Ordinary matter-of-fact people would laugh at Mrs. Lee’s
pretensions, but Dane knew that they were only too truthful, and that
she actually saw the hideous offspring of his brain with which his
evil passions had surrounded him. However, he put the delight of
conversing generally with this mistress of Black Magic aside for the
moment, since at any moment Isa might finish writing her postscript
and come out. It was time to get to business, and he did so without

“I feel there is some danger near me,” he said abruptly, “and I want
you to see what it is.”

Granny laid aside her pipe and stretched forth a skinny hand. “Give me
the ring you are wearing. I must get your condition to see,” she said.

Dane pulled off his signet ring and passed it along, as he knew that
otherwise she could not come into contact with his magnetism. Mrs. Lee
put it to her wrinkled forehead and closed her beady eyes. After a few
moments she began to speak slowly, listening at times as if some of
the viewless Things around her were speaking.

“It’s danger from above,” she muttered.

“What danger?”

“I can’t tell. That shell of yours which holds your wicked soul is
stretched out as flat as a pancake.”

“How does that happen?”

“I can’t tell, drat ye! But it won’t happen if you don’t let It come
into the house.”

“What is It?”

Granny listened for a moment. “A voice says that you’re not to know.”

“But how can I guard myself, if I’m not to know,” protested Theodore
in a vexed tone. “What is the use of warning me, unless the remedy’s

Granny shook her weird old head. “There’s innocence against you, and
Them as works for you can’t get over.”

“Get over what?”

“The barrier of innocence. Don’t ask me more questions for the mist is
hiding all.” She handed back his ring. “What I get plainly is: Don’t
let It come into the house.”

“But hang it!” raged Theodore, “what is It?”

“I can’t tell, drat ye!” said Granny again, and resumed her pipe.

Theodore gave her a shilling and left the hut more doubtful than ever.
His Oracle, as an Oracle should be, was too mystical for every-day

If Count Akira was indeed anxious to visit Beckleigh, he certainly did
not betray much alacrity in accepting the Squire’s cordial invitation.
He did write to the effect that he would be delighted to come, but
postponed his arrival until the second week in January. Official
business, he stated, would keep him employed during the next few
weeks, and he would be unable to leave his chief. Consequently there
was only a family party present at the Christmas festivities. Mr.
Colpster, being of a conservative nature, always kept these up in an
old-fashioned, hospitable style. Indeed, he invited several friends to
join on this occasion, as his nephew was at home, but the friends,
having their own families and own festivities, declined to put in an
appearance. The Squire was not sorry, as he disliked the trouble of
entertaining visitors.

As it was, he gave the servants a dinner, and bestowed coals and
blankets and hampers of wholesome food on the inhabitants of Hendle,
Boatwain, and the other hamlets, all of which had at one time belonged
to dead and gone Colpsters. For this reason did the Squire act so
generously, and he hoped when the emerald was recovered–for he
refused to believe that it had gone back to its shrine in Japan–that
the future good fortune which would come with it would enable him to
buy back the lost lands. Meanwhile, by acting as the lord of a lost
manor, he retained the feudal allegiance of the villagers. There was
something pathetic in the way in which the old man persistently looked
forward to the rehabilitation of his family. He made sure that the
Mikado Jewel would come back; he felt certain that the land would be
recovered, and was convinced that when he passed away, the husband of
Mara would start a new dynasty of Colpsters, through the female
branch, whose glories would outshine the ancient line. But who Mara
was to marry did not seem quite clear.

He spoke to the girl on the subject and suggested that she should
become the wife of Theodore or Basil. Mara shuddered when he mentioned
the first name, and her father noted the repugnance the shudder

“I don’t approve much of Theodore myself,” he said apologetically, “as
he is extremely selfish. But he has no bad qualities which would lead
him to waste money, and, moreover, he loves this place. You might do
worse, dear.”

“If Theodore was the only man on earth and offered me a kingdom, I
would not marry him,” said Mara, speaking decisively and in a firm
way, which contrasted strongly with her usual indifference, “He is a
bad man.”

“My dear child, he has no vices. He neither drinks, nor gambles,

“If he had all the vices of which a human being is capable,”
interrupted Mara loudly, “I would not mind. But his bad qualities are
inhuman. He is selfish and dangerous, and all his time is given to
Black Magic.”

The Squire laughed incredulously. “I know that Theodore dabbles in
such things,” he said disbelievingly; “but it is all imagination,
Mara. There is no such a thing as any power to be obtained in that

“Yes there is. I know,” said Mara, looking at her father

“Can you prove what you say, my dear?”

“No. And I don’t want to talk any more about the matter. I won’t marry
my cousin Theodore, even if you leave the property away from me.”

“I don’t want to do that. You are my heiress, and my idea was for you
to marry your cousin. Then he could take your name, and—-”

“I shan’t marry Theodore,” cried Mara for the third time, and stamped.

“Basil, then. You can have no fault to find with Basil.”

“I haven’t, father, but”–Mara stopped, and a strange smile spread
over her small, pale face–“I shall ask Basil to marry me, if you
like,” she said in an abrupt way. “He can but say no.”

“He won’t say no, my dear. Basil loves me too well to thwart my
wishes. But it is his part to woo and yours to listen. Let him ask.”

“I should have to wait a long time before he did that,” said Mara
dryly. “I wish to know the best or worst at once,” and she left the
room, still smiling strangely. Mr. Colpster could not understand why
she smiled. But, then, neither he nor anyone else understood the girl,
who seemed to hang between two worlds, the Seen and the Unseen,
without making use of either, so indifferent was her attitude towards
all things.

As it happened, Patricia was busy attending to the servants, as it was
her housekeeping hour. Mara was thus enabled to find Basil alone, for
when Miss Carrol was available he constantly followed at her heels
like a faithful and adoring dog. But Patricia would not appear for
some time, so the sailor read the daily paper in the smoking-room and
solaced himself for the absence of the eternal feminine with his pipe.
Mara knew where to find him, and entered in her light, noiseless way,
to perch on the arm of his chair like a golden butterfly. Without any
preamble she plunged into the reason for her intrusion into bachelor

“Basil, will you marry me?” she asked, coldly and calmly and

Looking on his cousin as a child, the young man thought that she was
joking, and laughed when he answered: “Of course. Will we start now
for the church on the moors where all the Colpsters have been

“I am in earnest, Basil,” she said seriously.

“So am I,” he rejoined lightly, “only it will be the marriage of
Bottom and Titania with you, my airy elf,” and he slipped his arm
round her waist, looking at her with a smile on his handsome face.

Mara, who disliked being touched, even by Patricia, much more by this
confident male thing–as she called Basil in her mind–slipped off the
arm of the chair and floated like thistledown into the centre of the

“Don’t be silly, Basil. I have just come from my father. He wants me
to marry you or Theodore. I hate Theodore, and would sooner die than
become his wife, but I told father that I would ask you to become my

Basil saw that she really meant what she said, and, moreover, knew of
his uncle’s strong desire to unite the two branches of the dwindling
Colpster family. Laying aside his pipe, he grew red to the roots of
his closely-cropped hair. “I–I–don’t want to,” he stuttered
ungallantly, and feeling very much confused. “I–I hope you don’t

A wintry smile gleamed on the girl’s white face. “I should have minded
a great deal had you really wished to marry me.”

“Then why ask me?” demanded Basil, much relieved, but still confused.

“To set my father’s mind at rest,” replied Mara quietly, and as
self-possessed as her cousin was disturbed. “Now that you have
declined, I can tell him!” and she flitted towards the door.

“But, Mara!” Basil rose and ran across the room to catch her arm. “How
can you be certain that I mean what I say?”

She turned on him with an amazed look. “You think that I am a child,
Basil, but I am not. I have eyes and ears and common-sense. You will
marry Patricia, will you not?”

Young Dane grew redder than ever. “I–I–have said nothing to her,” he
stammered nervously. “She–she doesn’t know that I–that I—-”

Mara’s scornful laughter stopped his further speech, and she became
quite friendly for so bloodless a person. “You silly boy!” she cried,
ruffling what hair the barber had left him. “Patricia knows.”

“But how can she?”

“Because she is a woman,” said Mara impatiently. “Women are not like
men, and don’t require everything to be put into words. I saw from the
moment you met Patricia that you loved her. I’m glad; I’m glad,” she
ended, with conviction, “as I don’t want to marry you or anyone else.”

Basil, with lover-like selfishness, did not pay attention to the end
of her speech, but to the earlier part. “If you saw, then Miss Carrol
must have seen.”

“Miss Carrol!” mocked Mara, with dancing eyes. “Why not Patricia?”

“Oh!” the shy sailor blushed. “I shouldn’t care to call her that.”

His cousin took him by the coat-lapels and shook him with frail

“Silly creature! If you have not the courage to take what you can get,
Patricia will have nothing to do with you. Women like a bold lover.”

“I don’t believe she will ever return my love,” sighed Basil

“Oh, as to that, she returns it already.”

“Mara!” he flushed again, this time with sheer delight, “do you

“I don’t think. I know, and I’m very glad, for Patricia is a darling.
I hope that father, who is as fond of her as I am, will give her
Beckleigh on condition that she marries you, who can’t say ‘Bo’ to a

Basil looked serious and sighed again. “I’m sorry to upset Uncle
George’s plans, for he has always been kind to me. But not even for
the estate could I give up Miss–that is, Patricia.”

“No one wants you to give up either,” said Mara impatiently. “Father
will no doubt give you Beckleigh.”

“No, dear. That would not be right. You are the heiress.”

“And what would I do with it? Keep a boarding-house, or start a
convent of nuns? I would much rather have a small income and be able
to move round as I please.”

“You will marry some day, Mara. Mr. Right will come along.”

“Mr. Right will never come along,” cried Mara, and coloured crimson,
which was unusual, “unless he comes from the other world.”

“What do you mean?” asked the sailor, greatly puzzled by this weird

“Oh, never mind,” retorted Mara, pitying his lack of comprehension.
“Sit down and dream of your Patricia. I am going to tell father that
my heart is broken.” And shooting a whimsical glance at the amazed and
startled Basil she slipped out of the room.

Five minutes later Miss Carrol arrived, with her household work
completed for the day. In spite of what Mara had told him, Basil would
not follow the path she had pointed out. He was rather more attentive
than usual to Patricia, and gave her to understand that he would wreck
continents for her sake. But the modesty of a man, which is greater
than that of a woman, kept his tongue quiet and his eyes
unintelligent. Patricia did not entirely approve of this restrained
attitude, as she knew that he loved her, and wished to be told so in
plain English. She could not understand why he did not speak. But
Basil himself understood very well. He waited for Patricia to give him
a sufficiently strong hint that she adored him, and then he could lay
himself at her feet. It did not seem right, so Basil thought, to act
on what he had learned from Mara, as that would be taking advantage of
illicit intelligence. But for the sailor’s rigorous views of honour,
the situation could have been adjusted then and there. All the same,
it was not, because she could not speak and he would not.

As for Mara, she returned to her father and demonstrated to him very
plainly that her cousin wished to marry Miss Carrol, and that when the
time came he would do so. Colpster felt annoyed. Mara could not marry
Basil, and would not many Theodore, so his plans for the future
well-being of the family were all disarranged.

“What would you say if I gave Beckleigh to Basil?” he asked pointedly.
“He could marry Patricia, you know, and take my name.”

“I should be very glad,” replied Mara quietly.

“Well, then, I won’t,” said her father, greatly annoyed. “You are the
last of the direct line and should have the property.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“You could live here when I am gone.”

Mara raised her faint eyebrows. “All alone?” she questioned. “You know
I would not allow Theodore to stay, and that Patricia would go with
Basil, who is always moving round the world. Oh, I couldn’t.”

“What’s to be done, then?” asked the Squire helplessly.

Mara threw her arms round his neck, a rare demonstration of affection
from so usually a self-controlled girl. “Wait,” she whispered, “wait
and see what is about to happen.”

“What is about to happen?”

“I don’t know. But something is coming along to change all our lives.”

“How do you know?”

“I can’t tell you. I only feel that there is something in the air

“Oh!” Colpster grew angry; “more of your occult rubbish. I wish you
were an ordinary girl, Mara, and not a dreaming visionary. I shall
wait until the emerald comes back, and then you must make up your mind
to marry Theodore, since Basil’s affections are engaged.”

Mara reflected and thought how very certain Theodore was that the
emerald had gone back to Japan never to return. The recollection gave
her a chance of pacifying her father, and of securing her freedom.
“Very well, then,” she said quietly. “When you get the emerald,
father, I shall marry him,” and in this way the affair was settled for
the time being. But think as she might, Mara could not guess how her
father expected the Mikado Jewel to return to the Colpster family. And
even if it did, she could not understand how its possession would
affect things in any way.

Meanwhile the days and weeks passed by and the time drew near for the
visit of Count Akira. Mara, although she said nothing, was looking
forward to his arrival. Why, she did not know, for, as a rule, she was
quite indifferent to those who came to Beckleigh Hall. In her heart,
however, she felt that he was coming into her life, either for good or
ill, and it was this feeling which made her say to her father that a
change was about to take place. But she could not have put her feeling
into words, and did not attempt to do so. With the fatalism which was
inherent in her character, she waited passively, certain that what was
meant to be would certainly become when the hour struck. There was
nothing more to be said.

Theodore had duly told his uncle of the interview with Isa Lee,
although for obvious reasons he said nothing about the _séance_ with
the grandmother. The Squire was, therefore, anxiously awaiting the
arrival of Harry Pentreddle, as he then hoped to learn how and why the
young man had stolen the emerald. Also, he might be able to guess who
had snatched it from the hand of Patricia, and, if so, could then tell
in whose possession it now was. A great deal depended upon what
Pentreddle had to say, and Colpster watched daily for his coming. But
Count Akira was the first to arrive, and in attending to a new and
fascinating guest, the Squire almost forgot his anxiety to hear the
evidence of young Pentreddle.

The Japanese came late in the evening, having arrived at Hendle by the
express, to be driven to Beckleigh by Basil. The young man went to
meet his friend, and brought him to the Hall in time to dress for
dinner. It was not until the meal was in progress that Mara set eyes
on him, and then she was so excited by his presence, although she did
not show her feelings, that she could scarcely eat. What she had
expected–vague as it was–had come true. This man from the Far East
was the man who would change her life. Into what he would change it,
and down what new path he would lead her, she could not say. All she
knew was that with the hour had come the man.

Count Akira was a small, neat person, with a bronze-coloured skin, a
clean-shaven face, black hair and black eyes, and a very dignified
manner. At the first sight he did not look particularly impressive, as
the European evening-dress did not entirely suit his aggressively
Oriental appearance. But when those gathered in the drawing-room came
to notice his keen, dark eyes, so observant and piercing, to listen to
his carefully-worded speech, and to look at his nobly-formed head,
they became aware that he was no ordinary man. Race was apparent in
his gestures and glances and dominating manner, so quiet yet
imperious. He came of a noble line accustomed to rule, and his
personality made itself felt more and more as something strong and
dangerous, while the hours passed. He was the past, the present, the
future of the island empire, the epitome of Japan, the representative
of the highest type of the Yellow Race, filled with far-reaching

“Is it true that you worship the sun in Japan?” asked Theodore

Akira turned his shrewd eyes on the speaker, and smilingly displayed a
set of snowy teeth. “Some do and some don’t,” he replied evasively;
“but I assure you, Mr. Dane, that if you ever saw the sun in England
you would worship him also, and with very good reason.”

“Oh, we get the sun here,” said the Squire patriotically.

“You get a name, but not the real central planet,” said Akira, with a
shrug. “Clouds and mist obscure his rays. Only in the East does the
true sun exist. Is that not so, Dane?” he spoke to Basil, whom he
always addressed in this way, although he was more ceremonious with

“It is,” assented the sailor, with a laugh. “And yet, Akira, when
under your painfully blue skies and in your blazing sunshine, I have
often longed for the cooling mists of England you so despise.”

“That is quite poetical,” smiled Patricia.

“Sailors are always poetical, although they don’t show that side to
landsmen. The solitary spaces of sea and sky, when one is driven back
on one’s self to think out high things, is enough to make any man

“Well,” said Mara shrewdly, “if sailors don’t show that side to
landsmen, they probably show it to landswomen. Is that not so, Basil?”
and she mischievously glanced from him to Patricia and back again.

“To some women,” replied Basil briefly, and colouring through his tan.

“What! When a sailor has a wife in every port!” sneered Theodore; then
aware that he had said more than he ought to in the presence of
ladies, he quickly turned to Akira. “Perhaps, Count, you will tell us
about Japan.”

The little man blinked his keen eyes and politely assented. He made
himself comfortable, and in many coloured words placed fairy-land
before their eyes. With great charm of manner, he told of cool
Buddhist temples, wherein weird ceremonies take place; he related the
delightful legend of Jizo-Sama, that kindly god who protects dead
children; he pictured the vivid life of toy cities, all colour and
movement, and drew the attention of his fascinated hearers to the
charm of Japanese and Chinese lettering, which lend themselves to
fantastic and odd decoration. After a time he gave a description of a
pilgrimage he had made to Fuji, that sacred mountain, which appears in
a thousand and one pictures of Dai Nippon. “My country with Fuji-Yama
left out is like _Hamlet_ without the Prince,” he said, smiling. “That
mountain is the guardian genius of the land.”

Then he told about the rice-fields, with their delicate springing
green, of the cherry-orchards in blossom, of the pine forest where
fox-women lurked, and sketched out many charming legends. His talk was
like a page of Lafcadio Hearn, and Mara hung breathlessly on his
words. As he proceeded, her breath became quick and short and her eyes
grew larger. She looked at the narrator, through him, past him, as
though all he described were passing before her like a panorama of
byegone centuries. Suddenly she clapped her hands.

“I remember; I remember,” she cried, rising unsteadily to her feet.
“Your land is my land. I remember at last,” and stopping suddenly, she
sank unconscious at the feet of the astonished Japanese.