THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
always the same, but seems like fire all glowing and palpitating, so that it is a very glorious sight. And whosoever smells the scent of one of these flowers forgets all the bitter memories and sorrows of his past life, grieveth no more for present woe, nor is able to be touched by any ill fortune that may come; since from the eyes of him that smelleth the thick veil falleth away, and he beholdeth the wondrous beauty of the things which verily are; and his ears are opened and the everlasting musick soundeth in them, so that in a moment of time his old life becomes like a dream a man dreamt when he was a boy, and remembers faintly all his days. And the sweet imaginations which come now and again into the minds of all of us, dimly and staying but an instant, by the scent of the rose blossom gloriously like unto it, and abide for evermore; and in the brain of him that has smelt this bloom of færy an old rhyme still runs—
We have a quiet place wherein to dwell.
A quiet place wherein to hear the swell
Break with a hollow roar upon the land
And rattle of the pebbles on the strand
And rain come pattering on the closed door
But we shall rest for evermore.
And, as he finished the rhyme, the stranger rose upon his feet and looked Eva de St. Maur through and through for a moment, then he did reverence and went forth, and they
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