flickering, rich, and luxurious, and came wholly from hanging lamps of yellow, blue, and red glass. In what appeared the extreme distance, the altar sparkled in the gleam of two huge candles of painted wax, and behind and about it showed green translucent, unsubstantial shapes of arches and pillars rising up and disappearing in the great darkness of the roof, which was as impenetrable as a starless heaven.

The church was bare of chair or pew or stool; the straight sweep of the nave was broken only by the dark outlines of princely tombs where lay the dust of former Bohemian kings and queens: their reclining figures so much above and beyond humanity, yet so startlingly like life, could be seen in the flood of ruby light that poured from the lamps above them, with praying hands and reposeful feet, patient faces and untroubled pillows on which the stately heads had not stirred for centuries.

“This is very old, this church, is it not?” whispered M. d’Espagnac.

“Old? Yes, it was built in the days of faith. This is the legend”—he turned to the left, where two lights of a vivid green cast an unearthly hue over huge bronze gates that shut off a chapel of the utmost magnificence and barbaric vividness. A brass ring hung from one of these gates, and the Frenchman put out his fair hand and touched it.

“This is the chapel of St. Wenceslas,” he said. “He was a prince, and he built this church; but before it was finished his brother murdered him as he clung to this ring—and the church has never been completed.”

He pushed the heavy gate open, and the two stood surrounded by the pomp and grave splendour of Eastern taste. From floor to ceiling the walls were inlaid with Bohemian jewels set in patterns of gold; the ceiling itself was covered with ancient but still glowing frescoes; the altar was silver and gold and lumachella, the marble which holds fire, and contained vessels of crude but dazzling colour and shape in enamel, painted wood, and precious stones.

A mighty candelabrum which showed a beautiful and powerful figure of Wenceslas stood before the altar, and lit, by a dozen wax candles, the cuirass and helmet of the murdered saint, preserved in a curious case of rock crystal which rested on the altar cover of purple silk and scarlet fringing.

Above the altar hung a Flemish picture showing the murder of the Prince by the fierce Boleslav; the colours were as bright as the gems in the walls, and the faces had a lifelike look of distorted passion. A pink marble shell of holy water stood near the entrance, and the lieutenant, with the instinct of an ingrained creed, dipped in his fingers and crossed himself. Luc de Clapiers did not perform this rite, but passed to the altar rails and leant there thoughtfully, a figure in strong contrast to his background.

“M. d’Espagnac,” he said, in a low, composed voice, “I liked the way you spoke to-night. Forgive me—but I too have thought as you do—I also live for glory.”

At hearing these words the youth flushed with a nameless and inexpressible emotion; he came to the altar also and lowered his eyes to the mosaic pavement that sparkled in the candlelight. He had only been a year in the army and one campaign at the war; every detail of his life still had the intoxication of novelty, and these words, spoken by his captain amidst surroundings exotic as an Eastern fairy tale, fired his ardent imagination and caught his spirit up to regions of bewildering joy.

“You have everything in the world before you,” continued Luc de Clapiers, and his voice, though very soft, had a note of great inner strength. “If anyone should laugh or sneer because you desire to give your life to glory, you must only pity them. M. de Biron, for instance—those people cannot understand.” He moved his hand delicately to his breast and turned his deep hazel eyes earnestly on the youth. “You must not be discouraged. You are seeking for something that is in the world, something that other men have found—and won—in different ways, but by the light of the same spirit—always.”

M. d’Espagnac sighed, very gently; his whitened hair and pure face were of one paleness in the ghostly, dim, mingled light of coloured lamp and flickering candle.

“I want to achieve myself,” he said simply. “There is something within me which is great; therefore I feel very joyful. It is like a flame in my heart which warms all my blood; it is like wings folded to my feet which one day will open and carry me—above the earth.” He paused and added, “You see I am speaking like a child, but it is difficult to find a language for these thoughts.”

“It is impossible,” answered Luc de Clapiers under his breath; “the holiest things in the world are those that have never been expressed. The new philosophy is as far from them as the old bigotry, and Prince Wenceslas, who died here five hundred years ago, knew as much of it as we do who are so wise, so civilized—so bewildered, after all.”

The youth looked at him reverently; until to-day he had hardly noticed the silent young soldier, for Luc de Clapiers had nothing remarkable about his person or his manner.

“Monsieur, you think, then, that I shall achieve my ambitions?” Hitherto he had been indifferent to encouragement; now he felt eager for this man’s approval and confidence.

“Of course—you surely never doubt?”

“No.” Georges d’Espagnac smiled dreamily. “I have done nothing yet. I have no task, no duty, no burden; there is nothing put to my hand—everything is so golden that it dazzles me. I think that will clear like dawn mists, and then I shall see what I am to do. You understand, Monsieur?”

The young captain smiled in answer.

“I brought you here to say a prayer to St. Wenceslas,” he said.

M. d’Espagnac looked up at the picture above the altar.

A prince, and young; a saint, and brave; a knight, and murdered—it was an ideal to call forth admiration and sorrow. The lieutenant went on his knees and clasped his hands.

“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, half wistfully, “he was murdered—a villain’s knife stopped his dreams. Death is unjust”—he frowned, “if I were to die now, I should be unknown—empty-handed—forgotten. But it is not possible,” he added sharply.

He drew from the bosom of his uniform a breviary in ivory with silver clasps, opened it where the leaves held some dried flowers and a folded letter, then closed it and bent his head against the altar rail as if he wept.

Luc de Clapiers went to the bronze gates and looked thoughtfully down the vast dusky aisles of the church, so cold, so alluring yet confusing to the senses, so majestic and silent.

He stood so several minutes, then turned slowly to observe the young figure kneeling before the barbaric Christian altar.

Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken, crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.

He was absolutely still in his exalted absorption, and only the liquid lustre of his eyes showed that he lived, for his very breath seemed suppressed.

The young captain looked at him tenderly. “Beautiful as the early morning of spring,” he thought, “are the first years of youth.”

M. d’Espagnac rose suddenly and crossed himself.

“I would like to keep vigil here, as the knights used to,” he said—his breath came quickly now. “How silent it is here and vast—and holy; an outpost of heaven, Monsieur.”

His companion did not reply; he remained at the opening of the gates, gazing through the coloured lights and shadows. The world seemed to have receded from them; emotion and thought ceased in the bosom of each; they were only conscious of a sensation, half awesome, half