would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oars again and
moved inland.

The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of
the archbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six
feet in height, in the center of which was a gate opening on the
water. Behind the gate was a small boat dock. Maurice plied the
oars vigorously. He skirted the royal gardens, and the smell of
newly mown lawns filled the air. Soon he was gliding along the
sides of the moss-grown walls. A bird chirped in the overhanging
boughs. He was about to cast loose the oars again, when the boat
was brought to a violent stop. A few yards waterward from the
gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On
one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.

Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began
rapidly to fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was
possessed of infinite good humor. The only thing left for him to
do was to swim for the gate. With a rueful glance at his thin
clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and
struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from
the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the
lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point
of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his
streaming eyes.

Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She
held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was
scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark,
large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams.