the poorly dressed man and woman. On the wall above the bed hung a crucifix of exquisite workmanship. The figure of the Christ, carved from a single piece of ivory, was yellow with age. The ebony cross showed a crack on one of its arms. It may have been the jewel of an antiquarian's collection filched from a church, for such folk dare to steal even such sacred things; it may have been the consolation of some sinful sufferer who in the dignity and grace of the dead face found hope and comfort, or it may have ministered to the support of some martyr doomed to die under the torment of the Inquisition of the Holy Catholic Church; it may have belonged to some cloistered nun, dead to this world and living in that hope of the next which flickers but is not quite extinguished, like the light of a taper in a strong wind. Whoever had fashioned it, whoever had owned it, the crucifix was a gem. To Philip Rondelet, a connoisseur in these matters, it had a strange fascination. As he sat beside the sleeping girl, his eyes fixed on the carved image, it seemed to glow with a warm, mellow light from its dark frame; the bowed head, with its crown of thorns, seemed to lift itself, and the eyes, unclosing, to gaze mournfully into his own. Had Philip belonged to the Church which believes in miracles wrought in the nineteenth
