themselves in the chill darkness of an English night in February. Surely
it must have seemed to them that they had been dwelling for a period in
warmer climes, with gay colors, and warmth, and sweet sounds around
them. They walked for some time in silence.

"Well," said Lord Evelyn, at last, "what do you think of them?"

"I don't know," said the other, after a pause. "I am puzzled. How did
you come to know them?"

"I came to know Lind through a newspaper reporter called O'Halloran. I
should like to introduce you to him too."

George Brand soon afterward parted from his friend, and walked away down
to his silent rooms over the river. The streets were dark and deserted,
and the air was still; yet there seemed somehow to be a tremulous,
passionate, distant sound in the night. It was no tinkling "Santa Lucia"
dying away over the blue seas in the south. It was no dull, sonorous
bell, suggesting memories of the far Campagna. Was it not rather the
quick, responsive echo that had involuntarily arisen in his own heart,
when he heard Natalie Lind's thrilling voice pour forth that proud and
indignant appeal,

"When, when will the Lord cry, 'Revenge, it is Mine!'"




CHAPTER IV.