inexorably to heat and frost, to the four winds that lash them and the
rains that wear them away, they are expiating, in effigy, the
abominations of their pride and cruelty and lust. Who were lechers,
they are without bodies; who were tyrants, they are crowned never but
with crowns of snow; who made themselves even with the gods, they are
by American visitors frequently mistaken for the Twelve Apostles. It
is but a little way down the road that the two Bishops perished for
their faith, and even now we do never pass the spot without a tear for
them. Yet how quickly they died in the flames! To these Emperors, for
whom none weeps, time will give no surcease. Surely, it is sign of
some grace in them that they rejoiced not, this bright afternoon, in
the evil that was to befall the city of their penance.



II

The sun streamed through the bay-window of a "best" bedroom in the
Warden's house, and glorified the pale crayon-portraits on the wall,
the dimity curtains, the old fresh chintz. He invaded the many trunks
which--all painted Z. D.--gaped, in various stages of excavation,
around the room. The doors of the huge wardrobe stood, like the doors
of Janus' temple in time of war, majestically open; and the sun seized
this opportunity of exploring the mahogany recesses. But the carpet,
which had faded under his immemorial visitations, was now almost
ENTIRELY hidden from him, hidden under layers of fair fine linen,
layers of silk, brocade, satin, chiffon, muslin. All the colours of
the rainbow, materialised by modistes, were there. Stacked on chairs
were I know not what of sachets, glove-cases, fan-cases. There were
innumerable packages in silver-paper and pink ribands. There was a