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people, he decided to leave the throne to young Galahad. Amid much rejoicing, the boy-knight was crowned, and very soon he had a beautiful temple erected to receive the Grail. Peace and prosperity, health and happiness, and all good things now filled the land.

Late one evening when Galahad and Percivale and Bors went up to the temple to pray, they found there Joseph of Arimathea, surrounded by legions of shining angels. The Holy Grail was no longer covered, but burned redder than any rose-blood-red in its golden cup, and a halo more glorious than all the sunsets encircled it. Soft music of heavenly peacefulness murmured through the air. Sweet savors were penetrating everywhere. Percivale and Bors closed their eyes against the dazzling splendor and hushed their breath for ecstacy. But, as the trumpet thrilled a wild triumphant note and cymbal and psaltery crashed in a tumult of sweet sound, it seemed to both the knights as though angel voices had bidden them to look; and, lifting their eyes, they beheld their Galahad clothed in incomparable light-sainted as it were in the

flesh-his flame-colored robe now white and glistening as the dawn. Then they saw the Holy Grail slowly lift up, and Joseph, and Galahad, and all the Shining Ones ascend with it, far, far up to where the heavenly gates unbarred, and for one never-to-be-forgotten moment, the city of High God they beheld unveiled!

Although Percivale and Bors lamented long over the loss of their friend, they could not help rejoicing that he should never again be separated from the Joy in which he had so long lived and moved.

Percivale could never forget the wonderful Vision that had been permitted to him-sleeping or waking it lived with him; and, as the mind takes shape and color from that upon which it dwells, Percivale could find pleasure only in pursuit of spiritual things. Therefore he quitted the world for the monastery, to give himself to the silent life of prayer. Here in penance he spent a year, then joined Galahad; but Bors returned to King Arthur's realm to relate to the court the wonderful story of the finding of the Holy Grail.

Winter Magic

By Edwin Carlile Litsey

A sullen sky thick-piled with clouds of wrath; White-sheeted lowlands frozen still with cold; Sleet-covered trees bare in the North wind's path; Close-huddled sheep safe in the sheltered fold.

Sombre and grim the forest giants stand,

Forbidding in their awful, icy might;
On Nature's breast a mailed and armored band,
Untouched by but the slightest ray of light.

The portals in the western sky swing wide,
The glory of the sunlight speeds afar;

The forest blossoms in that golden tide,

And on each twig there glows a silver star!

0

By L. M. P.

T was a copy of the "Magnificat" framed in an inimitable Cinque 9 Cento frame. It hung where the light fell strongest, in one of the gloomy rooms of the Casa San Domenico.

"It saved Nera Ubbriachi from a great crime," piped the old woman, blinking, "in the Cinque Cento."

Two women were walking to and fro upon the terrace of Casa San Domenico. Florence lay below. Sunlight was on the Beloved City, won, lost, regained in a never-ending struggle. Guelph and Ghibelline fought for her now, heedless of her death-throes and the famine in her streets. Buonarotti's forts on the opposite San Miniato hill, the distant San Giorgio, defended her; beyond them, the German and the Papal armies encompassed her about. She was in the direst straits and dying fast. Florentines mourned Ferucci, iron-hearted Ferucci, and looked askance on the procrastination of Malatesta Baglioni. A blow-and he would have had all starving Florence at his back; but he chose to stay inert before the enemy without the walls— watching-waiting, for what? Some dying, starving wretches ended their miserable existences but yesterday for shrieking "Traitor!" after Malatesta on the Ponte Vecchio, and screaming for Geronimo Casella, the son of a peasant, to lead them.

We see these two women gazing over the dying city, where the grey haze, her shroud, hung on tower and roof, and blended in the distance into one with the olive groves; the younger, tall, dark, with a glint of red in her thick, brown

hair which she might have inherited from her Venetian mother. Thin was she and pale, clad in a long, flowing, brown garment, worn bare in many places, which twenty years before might have clothed a ragged beggar-not such a patrician beauty as Nera Ubbriachi. The other woman, short, darker, better clad, maybe, with a keener hankering after the frivolous fashions of the Cinque Cento, with its tabs and slashings and puffings, but Monna Teresa had that same air of lean dryness in her middleaged face. Nera Ubbriachi was speaking-slowly, distinctly, with a certain impassivity, too studied to be natural.

"Nera!" A faint gasp interrupted her. Monna Teresa had clasped her hands upon her breast-they were trembling.

"You think it strange, without doubt!" It was a curious tone, a mingling of pity with some bitter amusement.

"Strange! What a word! Buon Dio! Can you be jesting?"

"Jesting!" Her face, her voice, relaxed for a moment, then regained what they had lost.

"It is Satan's work." Monna Teresa made a sign of the cross and kissed her thumb. "Anima Santa! Do you

know-"

"Rude, rough, uncouth, you can teach me nothing of him that I do not know." "Nera!"

"Let us understand one another." Her face, quite calm, was turned towards the city. "When my father first presented him to me I asked myself: 'Who is this lout they are bringing in?' He betrayed no pleasure at the presentation; within the moment, he had turned his back to me and swore at a dog which

stood in his way. A few days later my father spoke to me of my marriage with him." She did not falter, but rather gained in steadiness; nor did she pay heed to the mutterings and heavendirected gesticulations of Monna Teresa. "A week later my father again importuned me. We were exiles from Florence. Casella alone had the power to obtain a hearing for my father, that he might at least return-to die in the Beloved City. The second time I saw my husband-was at our betrothal."

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I have seen him wince when you addressed him. No other woman could have held that dog at bay-yet, you say, you love him! Shame! Shame! Nera Ubbriachi!"

She let the angry woman have her say. She would not humor her pride, but trampled on it. It was fierce joy, fierce. agony in one, to betray-all! She spoke.

"Sometimes, when the full horror of the position comes on me, such horror and disgust as you are feeling now-do not think that never comes; my faith,

"Vergine Madre! Listen to this tale of man's selfishness and woman's folly! Such swine dared to breathe of love to you!" "You misunderstand me. He has my hope in heaven, die, so much is he a never spoken the word to me!"

There were again faint outward signs of the violence she was doing herself. Monna Teresa stared, and stared again. "You would have me believe that you, and you alone-"

"Have I not said so?"

con

"You must be mad! Your father was mad to bring you into tact with such a man! He disgraced us all when he forced Casella on you. He made his own bed-he had chosen the Medici faction, and Florence would have none of him-'twas for him to

reap his bitter harvest. With your son could

wealth this swineherd's make himself a name. He risked even the good-will of the people for that, and now that he has you he has leagued himself with his own, even, it is whispered, against Malatesta himself. Yesterday there were acclamations in his honor outside the Palazzo della Signoria. Half that crowd will die in the Bargello tonight."

part of me and my life on earth. I could not, even if I would, separate what God has brought together."

"You are mad. You know not what you say!"

"He has no thought of me, nor ever will. His heart is in that city. Were he the enemy of Florence, I would betray her to him if I thought it would bring him honor."

No passion, no feeling, but the woman's very soul spoke.

Monna Teresa shrank away. "Miserable one! The poison is deep in you!"

"It is well you should understand me, Monna Teresa, that your comings here on behalf of Malatesta Baglioni are wasted hours which were better spent among the city's poor. This is no time. to hint of marriages annulled, neither, I am convinced, would my uncle, His Holiness, even if I appealed to him, ever see fit to issue the decree." It was noticeable that Monna Teresa's hand hid

"Oh! God!" It was a faint whisper, the expression of her face. "I am the lost on the older woman.

"I bring you your freedom with both hands," she went on, excitedly. "For heaven's sake, cast aside this evil spell that some witchcraft has laid over you.

wife of Geronimo Casella until death parts us. God send Malatesta Baglioni a holier mind, that he covet not another man's wife."

Monna Teresa grew paler.

"Your happiness, your welfare, ingrate, is all my brother seeks."

"So be it. Go. Tell him what I have told you, and leave me in peace!"

"You come well armed," she answered.

"Malatesta Baglioni is here."

She lifted her brows. He spoke as

An old serving-man came out upon the though she expected the Florentine commander's coming.

terrace, somewhat fearful of face.

"Il Capitano Geronimo Casella," he said. "He is on his way."

Monna Teresa gathered skirts and girdle from the ground. Of the three she was the palest.

"I cannot meet him." Her voice was muffled. She hurried to the marble steps that led into the cypress avenue be

low, hesitated there, turned, saw the still, tall figure of the other woman silhouetted against the sky, and ran back to her.

"I came to give you a warning," she stammered. "You gave me no time. He will bring you news-be prepared. Oh!

Cielo !"

A man was coming away from the house, crossing the huge uneven stones on the sunlit terrace. Some sleeping lizards whisked away, and Monna Teresa fled with them down the steps.

He was a striking figure-this Geronimo Casella, Malatesta's rival and one of the supreme Eight who ruled Florence, extraordinarily tall, dark and broad, with the face of the peasant, flat, carved, rugged; uninteresting it might have been in spite of its force but for the eyes, so black, so steady that there were few indeed who could meet their stare unmoved.

He accorded his wife a somewhat uncouth bow. He was a fighter, not a cavalier.

She seemed all of ice.

"I make you welcome, Geronimo Casella."

His eyes grew blacker. He showed his worst side to her always.

"I congratulate you, Madonna," he said; he had a deep guttural voice. am a liar myself."

"I

"It would seem I am to hold a reception to-day."

He went on speaking, with his eyes lowered and with an uncouth embarrassment on him, strange in such a man, but which assailed him always in her presence. He feared nothing on earth but the jibe of this woman's tongue. Sometimes he would strike out roughly, rudely, but with none of her force nor her bitter cruelty. She was of noble birth; she ever forced this knowledge on him, hating herself in spite of herself.

kinswoman, la Baglioni, disappear at the "You know why he is here, I saw your sight of me. She has prepared you for this moment, when Malatesta brings the proof of his love for you."

Nera Ubbriachi seemed to grow taller older.

"Is this one of many insults from you to me?"

He looked at her now, steadily enough.

"Is a man's love an insult?"
She became like snow.

"You must be mad to speak like this to me!"

"Why so? Perhaps I am the only one that etiquette demands should come to you on an occasion such as this. It is an occasion which calls for extraordinary measures." He studied the coldness of her uncomprehending face. A deeper shade spread over his own.

"Monna Teresa, perchance, was too busy with her gossip," he said, "to treat of other matters."

She still kept her eyes on him, uncomprehending, disdainful.

"At my prayer, and the representations of Malatesta Baglioni, our marriage is to be annulled."

So might one feel-dying! "I should have put on a wedding-garment, should I not?" He wore rough brown homespun, like herself. "But these are troublous times, when marrying and giving in marriage form but small part of a man's life."

"Representations have been made to His Holiness," she found herself speaking. "By whom?"

"By Malatesta." "Malatesta!"

"Does it cause you surprise? Politically, Malatesta is at enmity with the Papal States, but Malatesta is a son of the Church." Casella's manner gained ease, assurance, insolence perhaps. Who knows? Men ever rush to extremes. "Added to which he is your nearest relative, distant enough to becomenearer. I understood Monna Teresa Baglioni was to be the bearer of these glad tidings."

She fought a terrible, silent fight. "Why was I held in ignorance?" "Was it necessary to trouble you? There were plenty to testify that you were coerced into this marriage-plenty to swear to your utter abhorrence and contempt of the man, your husband, many to bear witness to the sordid reasons he had for marrying you, and some, even, to hint of benefits to your dead father. His Holiness, being satisfied of the injustice done to you, his niece, last of the Ubbriachi, has sent an emissary from Rome with the necessary documents for you to sign. With the Baglioni, the Reverend Emissary awaits you within. I had understood this task was to be Monna Teresa's. Pardon my rougher manner of blurting it to you." He had grown steadier still. He spoke of a matter that touched him not at allnay, a faint exultation was apparent in him.

It was all so sudden, so horrible death itself would not have seemed more

cruel. She knew that she had herself only to blame. What man-above all such a man as Geronimo Casella-would endure such treatment as she had ever meted out to him? A little softnessa gentle manner need not have betrayed her-might even have won him.

"Come, Madonna," he had half turned to go. "They await us. It is a matter of which I shall be glad to be rid." She put her hand to her throat. "You can afford to speak-you, who have filled your coffers."

It was a wild, woman-like stab in the dark, since no coffers could be full in Florence then; a stab to wound as he was wounding her.

"True." He was unmoved. "May the Baglioni be as lucky."

It was a deadly insult. Even he would seem to have felt it.

"Why should I crave pardon? I am of the people-such things are not expected of me!" He breathed a little fast, like one who had been running hard; he seemed to struggle with himself a moment, to lose, perhaps. "Why, look you!" He flung out one hand. "A hundred times have you said words to me that neither tears nor blood could wash away! I harbored them up. They were at least a part of you-the only part I ever really, fairly won." Whatever emotion had conquered him a moment since was pressing its victory home now. steadiness waned. The words rushed

out.

"Look you, again! You shall see the truth now, bare, naked, hideous! I lied to you from the beginning because I was-afraid." He drew a long breath. "I let you think I forced this marriage on you for love of the money your father had squandered on the Medici long before I had ever seen you-because I had a fool's notion, worthy of my birth, that that other reason was too immensely presumptuous. I built wild dreams on

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