it clearly at the top of the first page, thus: "Nourhalma; A Love
Legend of the Past," ... then turning to the end, he signed his
own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indisputable
right to the authorship of what was not only destined to be the
most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to prove
the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem ever
suggested to his brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded
them in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed--then
addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet together,
and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went
his great chance of immortal Fame. Immortal Fame!--what a grand
vista of fair possibilities those words unveiled to his
imagination! Lost in pleasant musings, he looked out again on the
landscape. The sun had sunk behind the mountains so far, that
nothing was left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from
which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances
poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight click
caused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,--he
turned round in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas
entered, carrying a small richly chased silver casket.

"Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last," he said with a smile.
"I began to think you were never coming. My correspondence is
finished,--and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England--where
I pray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended
my efforts!"

"You PRAY?" queried Heliobas, meaningly, "or you HOPE? There is a
difference between the two."