The wedding breakfast went off pleasantly, without a hitch of any sort. Trevennack, always dignified and always a grand seigneur, rose to the occasion with his happiest spirit. The silver-haired wife, gazing up at him, felt proud of him as of old, and was for once quite at her ease. For all was over now, thank heaven, and dear Cleer was married!

That same afternoon the bride and bridegroom started off for their honeymoon to the Tyrol and Italy. When Mrs. Trevennack was left alone with her husband it was with a thankful heart. She turned to him, flowing over in soul with joy. "Oh, Michael," she cried, melting, "I'm so happy, so happy, so happy."

Trevennack stooped down and kissed her forehead tenderly. He had always been a good husband, and he loved her with all his heart. "That's well, Lucy," he answered. "Thank God, it's all over. For I can't hold out much longer. The strain's too much for me." He paused a moment, and looked at her. "Lucy," he said, once more, clasping his forehead with one hand, "I've fought against it hard. I'm fighting against it still. But at times it almost gets the better of me. Do you know who I saw in the church this morning, skulking behind a pillar?—that man Walter Tyrrel."

Mrs. Trevennack gazed at him all aghast. This was surely a delusion, a fixed idea, an insane hallucination. "Oh, no, dear," she cried, prying deep into his eyes. "It couldn't be he, it couldn't. You must be mistaken, Michael. I'm sure he's not in London."

"No more mistaken than I am this minute," Trevennack answered, rushing over to the window, and pointing with one hand eagerly. "See, see! there he is, Lucy—the man that killed our poor, dear Michael!"

Mrs. Trevennack uttered a little cry, half sob, half wail, as she looked out of the window and, under the gas-lamps opposite, recognized through the mist the form of Walter Tyrrel.

But Trevennack didn't rush out at him as she feared and believed he would. He only stood still in his place and glared at his enemy. "Not now," he said, slowly; "not now, on Cleer's wedding day. But some other time—more suitable. I hear it in my ears; I hear the voice still ringing: 'Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince!' I can't disobey. I shall go in due time. I shall fight the enemy."

And he sank back in his chair, with his eyes staring wildly.

For the next week or two, while Cleer wrote home happy letters from Paris, Innsbruck, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. Trevennack was tortured inwardly with another terrible doubt; had Michael's state become so dangerous at last that he must be put under restraint as a measure of public security? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought she to make his condition known to the world at large—and spoil Cleer's honeymoon? She shrank from that final necessity with a deadly shrinking. Day after day she put the discovery off, and solaced her soul with the best intentions—as what true woman would not?

But we know where good intentions go. On the morning of the twenty-ninth, which is Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in fear and trembling. Michael, to all outward appearance, was as sane as usual. He breakfasted and went down to the office, as was his wont.

When he arrived there, however, he found letters from Falmouth awaiting him with bad news. His presence was needed at once. He must miss his projected visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go down to Cornwall.

Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back to Paddington just in time for the Cornish express. This was surely a call. The words rang in his ears louder and clearer than ever, "Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince!" He would go and obey them. He would trample under foot this foul fiend that masqueraded in human shape as his dear boy's murderer. He would wield once more that huge two-handed sword, brandished aloft, wide-wasting, in unearthly warfare. He would come out in his true shape before heaven and earth as the chief of the archangels.

Stepping into a first-class compartment he found himself, unluckily for his present mood, alone. All the way down to Exeter the fit was on him. He stood up in the carriage, swaying his unseen blade, celestial temper fine, and rolling forth in a loud voice Miltonic verses of his old encounters in heaven with the powers of darkness.

"Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields Blazed opposite, while expectation stood In horror."

He mouthed out the lines in a perfect ecstasy of madness. It was delightful to be alone. He could give his soul full vent. He knew he was mad. He knew he was an archangel.

And all the way down he repeated to himself, many times over, that he would trample under foot that base fiend Walter Tyrrel. Satan has many disguises; squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, he sat in Paradise; for

"…spirits as they please Can limb themselves, and color, or size assume As likes them best, condense or rare."

If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial hosts, could fit his angelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack—could not Satan meet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in the likeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel—his dear boy's murderer.

As far as Exeter this was his one train of thought. But from there to Plymouth new passengers got in. They turned the current. Trevennack changed his mind rapidly. Another mood came over him. His wife's words struck him vaguely in some tenderer place. "Fight the devil WITHIN you, Michael. Fight him there, and conquer him." That surely was fitter far for an angelic nature. That foeman was worthier his celestial steel. "Turn homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth!" Not his to do vengeance on the man Walter Tyrrel. Not his to play the divine part of vindicator. In his madness even Trevennack was magnanimous. Leave the creature to the torment of his own guilty soul. Do angels care for thrusts of such as he? Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?

At Ivybridge station the train slowed, and then stopped. Trevennack, accustomed to the Cornish express, noted the stoppage with surprise. "We're not down to pull up here!" he said, quickly, to the guard.

"No sir," the guard answered, touching his hat with marked respect, for he knew the Admiralty official well. "Signals are against us. Line's blocked as far as Plymouth."

"I'll get out here, then," Trevennack said, in haste; and the guard opened the door. A new idea had rushed suddenly into the madman's head. This was St. Michael's Day—his own day; and there was St. Michael's Tor—his own tor—full in sight before him. He would go up there this very evening, and before the eyes of all the world, in his celestial armor, taking Lucy's advice, do battle with and quell this fierce devil within him.

No sooner thought than done. Fiery hot within, he turned out of the gate, and as the shades of autumn evening began to fall, walked swiftly up the moor toward the tor and the uplands.

As he walked his heart beat to a lilting rhythm within him. "Go,

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