THE KING'S CUP At least the Vicar would be pleased! A whimsical joy in the anticipation of his delight shot across my gloomy meditations as the sunset rays threaded their way through the narrow window of the chamber that was my cell.

The thought of him stayed with me, amusing my idleness and entertaining my fancy.

I could imagine his wise, contented nod, far from surprise as the poles are apart, full of self-approval as an egg of meat.

For his vision had been clear, in him faith had never wavered.

Of a truth, the prophecy which old Betty Nasroth spoke (foolishness though it were) was, through Fortune's freak, two parts fulfilled.