the face as a thing created,--a thing of such power and possibility
as seemed wholly incredible. And now the creator,--the woman--had
arrived,--the woman whose rough designs on paper had been carefully
followed and elaborated into actual shape;--and there was a tense
state of expectation among all the workers awaiting her presence.
Meanwhile the lantern-gleam in the sky broadened and the web of mist
which veiled the sea began to lift and Giulio Rivardi, pacing to and
fro, halted every now and then to look in the direction of a path
winding downward from the mainland to the shore, in watchful
expectation of seeing an elfin figure, more spiritlike than mortal,
floating towards him through the dividing vapours of the morning.
The words of Don Aloysius haunted him strangely, though his common
sense sharply rejected the fantastic notions to which they had given
rise. She,--Morgana Royal,--was "not capable" of love, the priest
had implied,--and yet, at times--only at times,--she seemed
eminently lovable. At times,--again, only at times--he was conscious
of a sweeping passion of admiration for her that well-nigh robbed
him of his self-control. But a strong sense of honour held him in
check--he never forgot that he was her paid employe, and that her
wealth was so enormous that any man presuming too personally upon
her indulgence could hardly be exonerated from ulterior sordid aims.
And while he mused, somewhat vexedly, on all the circumstances of
his position, the light widened in the heavens, showing the very
faintest flush of rose in the east as an indication of the coming
sun. He lifted his eyes. . . .

"At last!" he exclaimed, with relief, as he saw a small gliding
shadow among shadows approaching him,--he figure of Morgana so
wrapped in a grey cloak and hood as to almost seem part of the
slowly dispersing mists of the morning. She pushed back the hood as