THE LINES LEAD UP In the late hours of the next afternoon Rollo, with a sigh, uncoiled himself from the shadow of the altar to the god Melkarth, in the Ilex Temple, and stiffly rose.

Vicissitudes were not for Rollo, who had not fathomed the joys of adaptability; and the savour of the sweet herbs which, from Jarvo's wallet, he had that day served, was forgotten in his longing for a drop of tarragan vinegar and a bulb of garlic with which to dress the herbs.

His lean and shadowed face wore an expression of settled melancholy.
"Sorrow's nothing," he sententiously observed.

"It's trouble that does for a man, sir." St.George, who lay at full length on a mossy sill of the king's chapel counting the hours of his inaction, continued to look out over the glistening tops of the ilex trees.
"Speaking of trouble," he said, "what would you say, Rollo, to getting back to the yacht to-night, instead of going up the mountain with us ?" Rollo dropped his eyes, but his face brightened under, as it were, his never-lifted mask.
"Oh, sir," he said humbly, "a person is always willing to do whatever makes him the most useful." "Little Cawthorne and Bennietod," went on St.George, "ten to one will take to the trail to-night, if they haven't already.

They'll be coming to Med and reorganizing the police force, or raising a standing army or starting a subway.