The bustle of the arrival was over.

The doctors had given their orders, the nurses were at their posts for the night, and, under morphia, Desmond was sleeping.

In the shaded library there were only hushed voices and movements.

By the light of the one lamp, which was screened from the bed, one saw dimly the fantastic shapes in the glass cases which lined the walls--the little Tanagra figures with their sun-hats and flowing dress--bronzes of Apollo or Hermes--a bronze bull--an ibex--a cup wreathed with acanthus.

And in the shadow at the far end rose the great Nike.