cloistral; is, indeed, but a monk with a mirror for beads and breviary
--an anchorite, mortifying his soul that his body may be perfect. Till
he met Zuleika, the Duke had not known the meaning of temptation. He
fought now, a St. Anthony, against the apparition. He would not look
at her, and he hated her. He loved her, and he could not help seeing
her. The black pearl and the pink seemed to dangle ever nearer and
clearer to him, mocking him and beguiling. Inexpellible was her image.

So fierce was the conflict in him that his outward nonchalance
gradually gave way. As dinner drew to its close, his conversation with
the wife of the Oriel don flagged and halted. He sank, at length, into
a deep silence. He sat with downcast eyes, utterly distracted.

Suddenly, something fell, plump! into the dark whirlpool of his
thoughts. He started. The Warden was leaning forward, had just said
something to him.

"I beg your pardon?" asked the Duke. Dessert, he noticed, was on the
table, and he was paring an apple. The Oriel don was looking at him
with sympathy, as at one who had swooned and was just "coming to."

"Is it true, my dear Duke," the Warden repeated, "that you have been
persuaded to play to-morrow evening at the Judas concert?"

"Ah yes, I am going to play something."

Zuleika bent suddenly forward, addressed him. "Oh," she cried,
clasping her hands beneath her chin, "will you let me come and turn
over the leaves for you?"