PEREGRINE, returning to consciousness, and unaware at the first of his surroundings, believed the snow to be an exceeding warm bed. This being so he lay still a while, very grateful for the repose to his aching limbs. Anon he opened his eyes, saw above him a dark arched roof, over which light flickered, saw before him the steady flame of a small lamp. This phenomena struck him as curious to find in a snow-drift, brought him to further investigation. Now he found that he lay not on snow, but on a couch, soft and luxurious, warm covering spread over him. Marvelling greatly he turned his head, found himself in a room, saw the flickering light to come from a wood fire on a great hearth.

By the hearth a man was sitting reading from a large book propped on a stand before him. Behind him was a shelf holding bottles, crucibles, and other glass vessels, some containing dark shapes, exceeding unpleasant to look upon. On three pedestals stood three figures; Clotho, who according to the Ancients spins the Thread of Life; Lachesis, who sees to its guiding, and whom Menippus had taken for his patroness; Atropus, who cuts it when she and her sisters will. Peregrine looked at this last with interest. He fancied she had but lately had her shears in hand for him, frustrated only by her sister, Lachesis. In this thought he possibly shot pretty near the mark.

Then he saw that Menippus had turned towards him, was surveying him gravely, the while one skinny finger kept the place in his book.

“So you have come to yourself,” said Menippus.

“I have evidently you to thank as my rescuer,” said Peregrine struggling to his elbow.

“Lie still,” said Menippus briefly. “It is sometimes doubtful whether thanks are due in such a matter. On this occasion, however, believing that you owe them, I accept them from you. It were well that you rested for a time. I would, however, converse with you. What brought you hither?”

“Foolishness,” said Peregrine very dryly.

“There I take leave to differ from you,” remarked Menippus. “Curiosity or wisdom might have led you an’ you had come of set purpose. Believing neither to have had a hand in the matter, I see rather the guidance of my patroness Lachesis.” Turning he bowed towards one of the three figures.

“Truly,” smiled Peregrine ruefully, “her sister had her shears ready to the thread.”

“Ha! you recognize them. That is well. Yet, despite the guidance of Lachesis, I can fancy you imagined some guidance of your own?”

“Rather the guidance of a myth I pursued to my own undoing,” said Peregrine.

“There again I must make correction,” remarked Menippus very suavely. “Whatever myth you pursued, you pursued it to your advantage, since it led you hither.”

“Have it your own way,” laughed Peregrine, “I am too weary to do combat with you.”

Menippus took his finger out of the book and leaned back in his chair. He looked gravely at Peregrine. There was a note in the laughter which showed less respect than he considered his due. Briefly, his vanity, a tender commodity, was pricked.

“Putting for the nonce,” he said, “laughter aside, I would have you speak more plainly. Show me shortly the myth you pursued.”

Here was a slight air of command, which for a moment stung the Jester. The next, humour prevailed. He saw matter for amusement in the evident seriousness of the other. It was plain that he took himself by no means lightly.

“Well,” quoth Peregrine, “since you desire brevity in the account you shall have it. I had a dream, a vision, call it what you will.”

“What manner of vision?” demanded Menippus.

“The vision of a woman,” replied Peregrine. “Though it was but in vision I saw her, I believed her to exist in reality, hence I set out to find her. I have pursued her for over a year. Plainly, I know not truly whether she exists or no. At times I have been certain of her reality; at times the certainty has fallen from me. A moment or so agone it had left me. Now, in speaking of her again, I am very sure she lives. There is the matter in a nutshell. ’Tis a tantalizing enough quest for a man, and maybe I am a fool to pursue it. At times I see the folly very plainly, at times I see in it naught but the clearest sanity.”

Menippus drew down his eyelids. His finger-tips together he spoke smoothly.

“Presuming the quest sane, presuming it fulfilled, what think you to gain when you have found her?”

“That,” said Peregrine quietly, “will lie between her and me.” The Sage’s tone had struck strangely on his heart. It brought with it at once hope and danger. Here it is none too easy to make my meaning clear. It was as though, on the one hand, the Sage had knowledge of the truth of the quest, yet, on the other, would put hindrance in its way. The full articulation of the thought came not entirely home to Peregrine; he but scented the matter as it were from afar. The Sage’s next words brought amazement to him.

“I know the woman you seek,” he said briefly. There was no mistaking the assurance of the tone.

“You have seen her?” he cried, even as he had cried to Simon.

“Verily I have,” returned Menippus. “Now listen. Pursuit of her is of little avail; that you have fully proved. I know her dwelling. She welcomes not all men to her presence. That you have had vision of her shows me that she desires yours. There is no need to question at the moment how this may be. We, who study the riddle of the Universe, know well that there are matters which lie beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. Doubtless you would find it hard to understand how I should have been aware of your presence in the snow-drift without making use of my physical faculties,—in this case the sight of my eyes. Nevertheless I did know, and to my knowledge is due the fact that you are now lying upon that couch. That is to us a simple matter, the A B C of our Science. In fact I doubt me that it goes beyond A. It is a mere question of vibration, to which the customarily accepted channels of communication are a hindrance rather than a help. You will discover this in the case of the blind. Deprived of the coarser physical attributes of sight, which read merely the heavy and slow vibrations, the mind is alert and attuned to the light and quick vibrations, which are, in a sense, of spirit rather than of matter. To make my meaning clearer,—one possessed of physical sight interprets rightly the vibrations received from an object before his eyes. This object emits heavy vibrations, which reach and correspond to the physical vibrations of the eye. Every object, whether near or far, whether hidden or actually apparent, emits vibrations, since all matter is alive. But,—and this I would have you note particularly,—that which is afar and hidden emits lighter vibrations, which cannot so readily be interpreted by a human being, who is, by reason of the possession of his physical senses, endowed with coarser vibrations. This is not always the case. There are those, who, in full possession of all their physical faculties, are yet able to receive, and at times interpret, the lightest vibrations in the Universe. But this is rare. You may take it as a general rule, that a blind man is more readily sensitive to hidden objects than one in possession of his sight, more readily aware of the presence of the quick and light vibrations of the spirit world. Again, a deaf man can receive the vibrations of sound from that same world, where one in possession of his hearing is dulled to them by reason of the presence of the coarser vibrations. This, no doubt, is strange to you, nevertheless it is a fact.” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, as of one who should say all this is mere child’s play, yet it were well to give it to you.

“Candidly, I find it exceeding bewildering,” said Peregrine.

“Under my tuition the bewilderment will pass,” said Menippus indulgently. “I see you rarely endowed. You need but guidance and teaching in the matter. This I propose to give you.”

Peregrine smiled somewhat grimly. “I doubt that you find in me an over-apt pupil,” he returned. “Also, to what end may the teaching be? And how shall it lead me further on my quest, which I tell you very plainly I mean to pursue?”

Menippus pointed to the door.

“There,” he said, “is your way out. You can leave me on the instant an’ you will; pursue your quest your own way. You have proved whether it has so far been successful or no. If, on the other hand, you abide here with me, receive the instructions I will give you, I will lead you anon to the woman you seek. By yourself you will never find her; through me you will. You may see my words fairy-tale invention an’ you choose. You have free choice in the matter. Think well on it.” He turned calmly to his book, bending close over the pages. For aught of consideration he now gave Peregrine he might have been non-existent.

Peregrine lay still, gnawing his finger thoughtfully. Truly he did not particularly like the turn of matters. There was an unhealthy atmosphere about the close-draped apartment and the man’s words which he found distasteful. An’ the woman were indeed in existence he had rather trust to his own self to find her. Yet....

In this word he summed up the past year and more; saw himself weary, footsore, hungry, moreover sick at heart, and no nearer fulfilment of his quest, to all appearance, than at the outset. Here was definite promise of fulfilment. It was the unhealthiness of the man before him that displeased him. He saw the face of the woman clear-eyed, wonderful, as he had seen her on the first day of his vision, not as he had seen her as he lay in the snow. That he believed now to be but the distorted image of a fevered imagination. How should the woman he knew in his dreams have dealing with this old Sage? In one breath Peregrine found the notion unendurable; in the next, an’ the Sage spoke truth, he saw here the only means of meeting with her. Yet did he speak truth? There was the crux of the whole question. Perchance it were wisdom to stay a while, and put the matter to the test. An’ the promise were not proved, he could set out anew on his own account. In the meantime he must stay as pupil. This he found somewhat nauseating to his mind. His senses now more fully awake, he found the odour of the room strange, a curious mixture of burning herbs, incense, and with it the scent of accumulated dust. No breath of outside air reached his nostrils. The atmosphere was as unwholesome physically as his mental conception of it. Thus he vacillated between remaining and departing. Finally he made his choice. Truly it was made somewhat sulkily, and for lack of seeing a better one.

“I will remain,” he said.

Menippus raised his head, looked at him as one bewildered.

“You spoke?” he asked.

“I said I would remain,” returned Peregrine a trifle testily. When one has stated a difficult and reluctant decision, it is none too pleasant to be obliged to repeat the statement. It is in a manner lowering to one’s dignity.

“You do well,” returned Menippus calmly. “Yet I would have you bear in mind it is by your own free will that you remain.”

“I am wholly aware of it,” retorted Peregrine. This insistence on the matter displeased him.

“I will now,” continued Menippus still calmly, “send for food. You must eat.”

“I need food strangely little,” quoth Peregrine, “seeing I have gone hungry the whole day, and, I judge, well into the night.”

“I gave you a cordial when we carried you within,” returned Menippus briefly. “There was food and drink in its strength.” He went to the door and clapped his hands.

Into the room came Castrano, the negro, bearing on a tray dishes of various meats, and decanters of wine. He placed them on a table and withdrew. Peregrine got off the couch. He and Menippus ate together. He found the meal exceeding palatable. On its conclusion Menippus turned towards him.

“I will now show you the room where you will sleep,” he said. He lead the way along a passage and to a door. Beyond it was a winding stair in a turret. Menippus entered the room with him; a small place it was, furnished with necessities and naught beyond.

“The place is at your full disposal,” said Menippus. “I make you my guest in confidence. There is but one stipulation I would put to you. The winding stair beyond your chamber leads to precincts which are my concern alone. I pray you leave them unmounted. Since you are a man it is safe to make this request. An’ you were a woman it would send you up them in haste at the first opportune moment.”

“Humph!” said Peregrine, leaving the cynicism unanswered.

“And now I bid you good-night,” said Menippus.

The Sage departed Peregrine sat down on his bed. By the light of a candle he surveyed the place. The walls were ochre-washed; the floor bare board, none too clean. Cobwebs hung about the ceiling; a waiting spider or two made dark blots on the soft grey nets. The bed was a straw mattress on wooden trestles, and covered by a somewhat mangey bearskin. A wooden chair, a rough oak chest, and a table made up the remainder of the furniture. Above the table was a slit of a window set far forward in a deep embrasure.

Peregrine crossed to the table, mounted it, and peered through the slit. The storm had spent itself. The world lay in still whiteness without. Overhead the sky was star-sprinkled, powdered with myriads of waking eyes. Peregrine felt strange comfort in their watchfulness.