smoothness, the saccharine felicity of authors like Giannettasio had
just begun to pall on his fancy, when the ANTIQUITIES fell into his
hands. It was like a draught of some generous southern wine, after a
course of barley-water. Here was Latin worth reading; rich, sinewy,
idiomatic, full of flavour, masculine. Flexible, yet terse. Latin after
his own heart; a cry across the centuries!

So bewitched was Mr. Eames with the grammar and syntax of the
ANTIQUITIES that he had already gone through the book three times ere
realizing that this man, who could construct such flowing, glowing
sentences, was actually writing about something. Yes, he had something
of uncommon interest to impart. And a gentleman, by Jove! So different
from what one runs up against nowadays. He had an original way of
looking at things--a human way. Very human. Those quaint streaks of
credulity, those whimsical blasphemies, those spicy Court anecdotes
dropped, as it were, in the smoking room of a patrician club--a rare old
fellow! He would have given anything to have made his acquaintance.

Forthwith a change came over Mr. Ernest Eames. His frozen classical
mind blossomed under the sunny stimulus of the Renaissance scholar. He
entered upon a second boyhood--a real boyhood, this time, full of
enthusiasms and adventures into flowery by-paths of learning. Monsignor
Perrelli absorbed him. He absorbed Monsignor Perrelli. Marginal
observation led to footnotes; footnotes to appendixes. He had found an
interest in life. He would annotate the ANTIQUITIES.

In the section which deals with the life of Saint Dodekanus the Italian
had displayed more than his usual erudition and acumen. He had sifted
the records with such incredible diligence that little was left for the
pen of an annotator, save words of praise. In two small matters,