“My grandfather had no respect for the opinions of majorities,” Tacita said. “He said that out of a thousand persons it was quite possible that one might be right and nine hundred and ninety-nine wrong. He said that the history of the world is a history of individuals.”
As Iona rose to go, the door opened, and Elena came in followed by Dylar.
Tacita went with some agitation to meet this man, who was still, to her, a mystery. Nor was he less a mystery when she found him simply a dignified and agreeable gentleman, with nothing strange about him but his costume of dark blue cloth, a sort of cashmere of silk and wool, soft and softly tinted. It was made in the Scottish, or oriental fashion, with a tunic to the knee and a silken sash of the same color. He wore long hose of black silk, silver buckles to his shoes, and on his turban-shaped cap, made of the same blue cloth, was a silver band, closed at the left side by a clasp of a strange design. A hand pointing upward with all its fingers was set inside of a triangle that was inclosed in a winged circle.
Seeing Tacita’s glance touch this symbol more than once, Dylar explained it. “We have all some badge, according to our occupation,” he said. “The hand is manual labor. I am a carpenter, and have served my apprenticeship, though I seldom do any work. The triangle is scientific study, and the winged circle is a messenger. All those who, having their home here, go out on our errands, wear this winged circlet. It is the only badge I really earn; but I wear the three as Director of all.”
“I hope that I may be allowed to earn one,” Tacita said, trying to settle her mind into a medium position between the strange romance of her first impressions of this man and the not unfamiliar reality of their present meeting. The penetrating eyes were there; but they only glanced at her kindly, and did not dwell. A slight smile, full of friendliness, illumined his face as he spoke to her; but between it and her there floated a shadow-face, having the same outlines and colors, but fixed in a gaze of intense and self-forgetful study.
“I am not clairvoyant,” he said presently, his eyes laughing; “but I fancy that your thought has made a flight to Madrid during the last few minutes.”
“Could I help it?” she said blushing. “I could not venture to ask; but”—
“You can ask anything!” Dylar said. “If you show no curiosity, I shall think you indifferent. I am told that the resemblance is striking. Of course I cannot judge. The original of that portrait was the founder of San Salvador, and a Dylar, my ancestor. But, my lady, I had already seen something more than a picture resembling you when we met in Madrid. I had seen yourself, not alone in Venice, but years before, in Naples. You spoke to me. Do you remember?”
“Oh! I could not have looked at you and forgotten,” she answered with conviction.
“Pardon! You looked and spoke. And you gave me an alms.”