“It does not date from yesterday, as I have told you,” the duke went on. “The duchy was already in existence, having been given to Hugh, chief of the Franks, by the Emperor Theodosius; but it was only in Morgana’s time that it came to a consciousness of itself. Morgana was a poor sailor-girl, according to some—a king’s daughter, according to others. Did she ever really exist? or is she only an ideal figure created by a people in infancy, more inclined to poetry than to reflection, and personifying in her all its great heroines?
“However that may be, the year, as your Edgar Poe says, ‘had been a year of terrors.’ There was fighting along the frontiers. The duke, selfish-hearted and weak, had lost two of his provinces. The people were in despair. Morgana brought hope back to them. Her piety and her beauty worked miracles. A light, it is said, followed her. She took up arms for her country and worked wonders. The hordes of the enemy thought her invulnerable—they had set a price on her head. One day, in battle, she saved Duke Adhemar, when he was at the point of being massacred; she leaped forward, with the great white-cross standard in one hand and her battle-ax in the other, slashed her way through the barbarians, and, her arms red with blood, brought back the duke amid the acclamations of the people. Their enthusiasm was immense; they prayed at Morgana’s feet. ‘What passed afterward?’ Had the duke promised marriage to her, as some pretend—and, to obtain peace, did he sell Morgana to the enemy? Our chronicles are uncertain on that point. But Duke Adhemar compromised himself by some ugly deed or other—the perjury of a coward. One evening the indignant Morgana came down to the shore, followed by a whole people, who demanded her for their duchess and scattered flowers before her. But she entered her bark alone. ‘Since the duke has sworn,’ she said, ‘let me save his honor. I go. May my sacrifice redeem his race! And remember—not gold, but youth and courage are a people’s strength!’ Then Morgana sailed away from the shore and disappeared in the open sea, while the crowd still prayed for her. The next day a strange mirage lighted up the country, and the people said: ‘It is the soul of Morgana, virgin and martyr.’ Then the people, in their indignation, drove Duke Adhemar from the throne. They raised altars to her. To Morgana was given the title of duchess; she became the protectress of Morgania—and of my house, whose honor she had saved.”
“Let us hope she will come back,” said Miss Rowrer. “You are quite right to believe in her!”
“I—” began the duke.
“Why, yes, monseigneur,” continued Miss Rowrer, who had remarked the duke’s accent of conviction toward the end of his story. “Don’t deny it—it is beautiful to believe in something! M. Caracal will pardon you this time.”
“Willingly, Miss Rowrer,” said Caracal, with the pinching of the lips which was his mode of smiling. “Willingly; but on one condition. Get Monsieur Phil to show you his works.”
“Here they are, it seems to me,” Ethel said, pointing to the paintings and sketches which filled the studio.
“No doubt,” Caracal insisted; “but—all his handiwork is not here. Come, Monsieur Phil, show us the work which is really yours—what you paint with your soul! Don’t be so modest; bring the light from beneath the bushel!”
“Yes; show us, Phil,” said the duke.
“Monseigneur—” Phil began.