He stood up and gazed abstractedly in the direction of the garden. In silence he stood looking, not at the garden, but beyond it, into some vaster garden of his fancy. Sheard studied him with earnest curiosity.
"Will you never tell me," he began abruptly, "who you are really, what is the source of your influence, and what is your aim in all this wild business?"
Séverac Bablon turned and regarded him fixedly.
"I will," he said, "when the day comes—if ever it does come." A shadow crept over his mobile features.
"I am a dreamer, Sheard," he continued, "and perhaps a trifle mad. I am trying to wield a weapon that my fathers were content to let rust in its scabbard. For the source of the influence you speak of—its emblem lies there."
He pointed a long, thin finger to the recess veiled with its heavy Damascus curtain.
"May I see it?"
The quizzical smile returned to the fine face.
"Oh, thou of the copy-hunting soul," exclaimed Séverac Bablon. "A day may come. But it is not to-day."
He seized Sheard by the arm and led him out into the hall.