they there. That spell was broken by the sight of poor wearied pug,
his once gracefully-floating brush all draggled and drooping, as he
toiled up the sheep-paths towards the open down above.

But Lancelot's sadness reached its crisis, as he met the hounds just
outside the churchyard. Another moment--they had leaped the rails;
and there they swept round under the gray wall, leaping and yelling,
like Berserk fiends among the frowning tombstones, over the cradles
of the quiet dead.

Lancelot shuddered--the thing was not wrong--'it was no one's
fault,'--but there was a ghastly discord in it. Peace and strife,
time and eternity--the mad noisy flesh, and the silent immortal
spirit,--the frivolous game of life's outside show, and the terrible
earnest of its inward abysses, jarred together without and within
him. He pulled his horse up violently, and stood as if rooted to
the place, gazing at he knew not what.

The hounds caught sight of the fox, burst into one frantic shriek of
joy--and then a sudden and ghastly stillness, as, mute and
breathless, they toiled up the hillside, gaining on their victim at
every stride. The patter of the horsehoofs and the rattle of
rolling flints died away above. Lancelot looked up, startled at the
silence; laughed aloud, he knew not why, and sat, regardless of his
pawing and straining horse, still staring at the chapel and the
graves.

On a sudden the chapel-door opened, and a figure, timidly yet
loftily stepped out without observing him, and suddenly turning
round, met him full, face to face, and stood fixed with surprise as