face. At twenty-four life has not lost its rosy tints; heart, mind,
and body are fresh and free to take a share in all its opening scenes,
more especially if, as in Cardo's case, love, the disturber, has not
yet put in an appearance.

As he reached the brow of the hill beyond the town, the white dusty
road stretched like a sinuous snake over the moor before him, while on
the left, the sea lay soft and grey in the twilight, and the moon rose
full and bright on his right. The evening air was very still, but an
occasional strain of the band he had left behind him reached his ears,
and with a musical voice he hummed the old Welsh air which came
fitfully on the breeze:

"By Berwen's banks my love hath strayed,
For many a day in sun and shade;
And while she carols loud and clear,
The little birds fly down to hear.

"By Berwen's banks the storm rose high,
The swollen river rushing by!
Beneath its waves my love was drowned
And on its banks my love was found!"


Suddenly he was aware of a cloaked figure walking about a hundred yards
in front of him. "Who's that, I wonder?" he thought, and then,
forgetting its existence, he continued his song:

"I'll ne'er forget that leafy shade!
I'll ne'er forget that winsome maid!