The low Gothic Vaulting of the Vagabond's narrow cell grew dim in the dusk of the late afternoon. Outside the rain drizzled down, blanket upon blanket, showing the streets below a black ribbon in which closely wrapped figures hastened under the shuddering arcs to the bright shelter of heated chambers. Through the racing, crowding thunderheads above, there still broke a few dull rays of yellow light, which reflected eyrily from Memorial's gray and blood slates into the oaken garret. The Vagabond turned from the casement to the dark and empty chimney corner and lighted the lamp by his deep leathern chair; the scurrying forms occupied by nothing, the sight of Sever's portent walls, ugly without benefit of age, called in him a longing for life, for knowledge, for power, and love, ere it were too late. In the distance was the rumble of vernal thunder. Starting the old fellow from his melancholy reverie came a knocking, one, two,--three. He rose hastily, slid back the bolt on the studded door, and shrank back. "Bin ich ein Gott!" he murmured.

A Franciscan cowled in black stooped under the lintel and strode into the chamber, followed by a waddling friar and--was it a dog? The Vagabond eyed the Beast fearfully, the hound-like body, the leathery gray hide maculate with patches of glinting hairs, the beak, the swinging pink teats, its ebon Veneficium of Amor between almond eyes. The Beast slunk to the hearth where the Franciscan had established himself comfortably. "Be thou not afraid," the Holy Man intoned softly. "We are of the World Spirit, to comfort such as thou." Further events the Vagabond shall never recall clearly.

The cowled man commanded the Friar, and a lambent flame filled the chimney, cheering the room, driving out the chill mist. From the empty cupboard the servant produced a bottle of Maliga sacke and a fat capon. While the spitted fowl drank in the fire the monk talked of himself, of the joys of youth. "Thou'rt younge yet," be smiled. "And so was I, onely, methinks, a few houres gone. In everie pleasure reioycing, I imployed myselfe with all the wilde antickes of the sences. An apless knave, dauncing with the trulls, keping my stomacke better than my soule, I would be a coniurer, soke Veritas in ayre and earth. There was one faire Mayde, vertuous . . . Full many a lass was laid on the lippe. He say no more.--Ho, Miles, the capon. Bringe thy tabor and pipe, troll away, like a foole for Hise Maiestie!" They drank, and talked, and sang. The Vagabond remembers snatches of a ballad:

To couple is a coustome, all things thereto agree:

Why should I not then love? since love to all is free.

But ile have one that's pretty her cheeks of scarlet die.

For to breed my delight when I ligge her by.

The faire is oft unconstant, the blacke is often proud,

He choose a lovely brown, come fidler, scrape thy crowd . . .

Dust had grimed the dregs at the foot of the bottle, the fire was embers, Dawn reached rosy fingers to snatch back reality. The Vagabond shook himself, gazed at his empty lair, stretched in preparation for a new day. At nine o'clock he will saunter spryly into Sever 22 to hear Mr. Curtiss discourse on "Motion in Polar Coordinates," for Roger Bacon, first of the moderns, said "Mathematics prepares the mind and elevates it to a sure knowledge of all things," for in numbers lies the only Truth.