hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains
king. Woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom
and translates into action the secret of his dreams. The throng that
before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross
his delicate hands and feet.

Sometimes days passed before Ernest could concentrate his mind upon his
play. Then the fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl,
line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to discuss his
work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed
indecent to him.

Reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. Ernest had little
chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his plans between the
courses at breakfast would have been desecration.

Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had
made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's
mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of
the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper
would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely
evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to
seize them.

The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in
the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final
task.

He told Reginald of his intention, but met with little response.
Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had