heard before. It was the voice of that magic harp at the bottom of the
sea, it was the voice that had told him of her lovers, the voice of
hidden music that had cried "Resurgam" through the wood.

"Antony," she said, "sing me songs of little Wonder."

And, forgetting all but the magic of her voice, the ecstasy of being
hers again, Antony carried her with him to the châlet, and setting her
in her accustomed place, gazed at her with his whole soul.

"Sing me songs of little Wonder," she repeated.

"You bid me sing of little Wonder!" cried Antony, half in terror of this
beautiful evil face that drew him irresistibly as the moon, "you, who
took her from me!"

"Who but I should bid you sing of Wonder?" answered Silencieux. "I
loved her. That was why I took her from you, that by your grief she
should live for ever. There is no one but I who can give you back your
little Wonder--no one but I who can give you back anything you have
lost. If you love me faithfully, Antony--there is nothing you can lose
but in me you will find it again."

Antony bowed his head, his heart breaking for Beatrice--but who is not
powerless against his own soul?

"Listen," said Silencieux again. "Once on a time there was a beautiful
girl who died, and from her grave grew a wonderful flower, which all the
world came to see. 'Yet it seems a pity,' said one, 'that so beautiful a
girl should have died.' 'Ah,' said a poet standing by, 'there was no