crowned a western tower, their white wings beat against a silver bell that glistened there, and the whole valley was filled with music.
My Master trembled and crossed himself. "In the name of our Mother," he exclaimed, "let us return. I dare not trust your life here."
But a great door in front of the palace swung open, and a woman with a swaying walk came out to the terrace. She wore a robe of crimson worn into tatters at skirt-hem and shoulders. She had been forewarned of our presence, for her face turned instantly in our direction. She smiled subtly, and her smile died away into a most tempting sadness.
She caught up such remnants of her skirt as trailed behind, and strutted about with the gait of a peacock. As the sun touched the glossy fabric I saw eyes inwrought in deeper hue.
My Master still trembled, but he did not move, for the gaze of the woman was fixed upon him. His brows twisted and his white hair rose and stood erect, as if he viewed some unspeakable horror.
Stooping, with sidelong motions of the head, she approached; bringing with her the smell of such an incense as when amidst Eastern herbs burns the corse. . . . . She was perfect of feature as the Diana, but her skin was deathly white and her lips fretted with pain.
She took no heed of me, but knelt at my Master's feet—a Magdalene before an impregnable priest.
"Prince and Lord, Tower of Chastity, hear!" she murmured. "For lack of love I perish. See my robe in tatters!"
He strove to avert his face, but his eyes still dwelt upon her. She half rose and shook nut-brown tresses over his knees.
Youth came back in a flood to my Master. His shrivelled
