He had the appearance of a tall,
lean youngster, with crisp, curling, very dark red hair. He now
regarded Maudelain. He displayed peculiarly wide-set brown eyes; and
their gaze was tender, and the tears somehow had come to Maudelain's
eyes because of his great love for this tall stranger. "Eh, from the
dead to the dead I travel, as ever," said the new-comer, "with a
message and a token. My message runs, _Time is, O fellow satrap!_ and
my token is this."
In this packet, wrapped with white parchment and tied with a golden
cord, was only a lock of hair. It lay like a little yellow serpent in
Maudelain's palm. "And yet five years ago," he mused, "this hair was
turned to dust. God keep us all!" Then he saw the tall lean emissary
puffed out like a candle-flame; and upon the floor he saw the huddled
cloak waver and spread like ink, and he saw the white parchment slowly
dwindle, as snow melts under the open sun. But in his hand remained
the lock of yellow hair.
"O my only friend," said Maudelain, "I may not comprehend, but I know
that by no unhallowed art have you won back to me.
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