Silet per diem universus, nec sine horrore secretus
est; lucet nocturnis ignibus, chorus Aegipanum undique
personatur: audiuntur et cantus tibiarum, et tinnitus cymbalorum
per oram maritimam.


On the third page was a design which made Villiers
start and look up at Austin; he was gazing abstractedly out of
the window. Villiers turned page after page, absorbed, in spite
of himself, in the frightful Walpurgis Night of evil, strange
monstrous evil, that the dead artist had set forth in hard black
and white. The figures of Fauns and Satyrs and Aegipans danced
before his eyes, the darkness of the thicket, the dance on the
mountain-top, the scenes by lonely shores, in green vineyards,
by rocks and desert places, passed before him: a world before
which the human soul seemed to shrink back and shudder.
Villiers whirled over the remaining pages; he had seen enough,
but the picture on the last leaf caught his eye, as he almost
closed the book.

"Austin!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Do you know who that is?"

It was a woman's face, alone on the white page.

"Know who it is? No, of course not."