eagerly and surrendered the elixir. The duke waited a time for the elixir to cool, then raised the goblet to his lips and drained it.
"Faugh! It has a filthy taste, Messer, but if it accomplishes half of what is said about it, its taste is pardonable."
"And that it will, my lord."
"Another goblet, Messer Girolani. I must make haste, for this night has my youngest son escaped his nurse and is now at large in the byways of Milan."
"At once, Excellence."
"What is it you have beneath the cloth upon this table, Messer?"
"It is the dead child, Magnificence. Your love of life has deprived him of it."
The duke drained the goblet. He rose, pulled his cloak about him, and started for the door, only to halt before the curtain. He walked slowly back and stood before the silent form beneath the cloth. Tentatively he stretched forth a hand, but withdrew it.
"For three hours have we searched for my son, Messer Girolani."
Again he stretched forth a hand, and again he hesitated. Messer Girolani said nothing, but his face betrayed his thoughts. Suddenly, spasmodically, the duke snatched away the coverlet, but his nerveless fingers dropped the cloth as if it were fire. He shouted hoarsely and recoiled from the accusing body. His face blanched. He gave a low moan and stared about for the magician. But Messer Girolani had gone, and he was alone with the mutilated body of his own son, whose blood was the elixir of life.
Ghosts
Who tapped upon my window pane
And sighed and laughed and sighed again,
Till I called aloud so the stillness heard
A sweet, a long-unspoken word?
Was it only wind and rain?
Yesterday, with whisper slight,
Footfalls followed me, quick and light,
Fluttering, restless close behind:
Who went where my garden pathways wind?
Dry leaves of crimson bright?
Who wails my name with sobbing cry
So that I wake and weeping lie?
A string of the violoncello broke,
In its dusty case—but yet—who spoke?
Who sighs? Who passes by?
