THE END OF THE EVENING
The Hall of Kings was very still as Olivia rose. She stood with one
hand touching her veil's hem, the other resting on the low, carved
arm of the throne, and at the coming and going of her breath her
jewels made the light lambent with the indeterminate colours of
those strange, joyous banners floating far above her head.
Her voice was very sweet and a little tremulous--and it is the very
grace of a woman's courage that her voice tremble never so slightly.
It seemed to St. George that he loved her a thousand times the more
for that mere persuasive wavering of her words. And, while he
listened to what he felt to be the prelude of her message, it seemed
to him that he loved her another thousand times the more--what
heavenly ease there is in this arithmetic of love--for the tender
meaning which, upon her lips, her father's name took on. When,
speaking with simplicity and directness of the subject that lay
uppermost in the minds of them all, she asked their utmost endeavour
in their common grief, it was clear that what she said transcended
whatever phenomena of mere experience lay between her and those who
heard her, and they understood. The _rapport_ was like that among
those who hear one music. But St. George listened, and though his
mind applauded, it ran on ahead to the terrifying future. This was
all very well, but how was it to help her in the face of what was to
happen in three days' time?
"Therefore," Olivia's words touched tranquilly among the flying ends
of his own thought, "I am come before you to make that sacrifice
which my love for my father, and my grief and my anxiety demand. I
count upon your support, as he would count upon it for me. I ask
that one heart be in us all in this common sorrow. And I am come
with the unalterable determination both to renounce my throne
there"--never was anything more enchanting than the way those two
words fell from her lips--"and to postpone my marriage"--there never
was anything more profoundly disquieting than _those_ two words in
such a connection--"until such time as, by your effort and by my
own, we may have news of my father, the king; and until, by your
effort or by my own, the Hereditary Treasure shall be restored."
So, serenely and with the most ingenuous confidence, did the
daughter of the absent King Otho make disposition of the hour's
events. Amory leaned forward and feverishly polished his pince-nez.
"What do you think of that?" he put it, beneath his breath, "what
_do_ you think of that?"
St. George, watching that little figure--so adorably, almost
pathetically little in its corner of the great throne--knew that he
had not counted upon her in vain. Over there on the raised seats
Mrs. Medora Hastings and Mr. Augustus Frothingham were looking on
matters as helplessly as they would look at a thunder-storm or a
circus procession, and they were taking things quite as seriously.
But Olivia, in spite of the tragedy that the hour held for her, was
giving the moment its exact value, guiltless of the feminine
immorality of panic. To give a moment its due without that panic,
is, St. George knew, a kind of genius, like creating beauty, and
divining another's meaning, and redeeming the spirit of a thing from
its actuality. But by that time the arithmetic of his love was by
way of being in too many figures to talk about. Which is the proper
plight of love.
Every one had turned toward Prince Tabnit, and as St. George looked
it smote him whimsically that that impassive profile was like the
profiles upon the ancient coins which, almost any day, might be cast
up by a passing hoof on the island mold. Indeed, St. George thought,
one might almost have spent the prince's profile at a fig-stall,
and the vender would have jingled it among his silver and never have
detected the cheat. But in the next moment the joyous mounting of
his blood running riot in audacious whimsies was checked by the even
voice of the prince himself.
"The gratitude and love of this people," he said slowly, "are due to
the daughter of its sovereign for what she has proposed. It is,
however, to be remembered that by our ancient law the State and
every satrapy therein shall receive no service, whether of blood or
of bond, from an alien. The king himself could serve us only in that
he was king. To his daughter as Princess of Yaque and wife of the
Head of the House of the Litany, this service in the search for the
sovereign and the Hereditary Treasure will be permitted, but she may
serve us only from the throne."
"Upon my soul, then that lets _us_ out," murmured Amory.
And St. George remembered miserably how, in that dingy house in
McDougle Street, he and Olivia had listened once before to the
recital of that law from the prince's lips. If they had known how
next they would hear it! If they had known then what that law would
come to mean to her! What could she do now--what could even Olivia
do now but assent?
She could do a great deal, it appeared. She could incline her head,
with a bewitching droop of eyelids, and look up to meet the eyes of
the prince with a serenity that was like a smile.
"In my country," said Olivia gravely, "when anything special arises
they frequently find that there is no law to cover it. It would seem
to us"--it was as though the humility of that "us" took from her
superb daring--"that this is a matter requiring the advice of the
High Council. Therefore," asked little Olivia gently, "will you not
appoint, your Highness, a special session of the High Council to
convene at noon to-morrow, to consider our proposition?"
There was a scarcely perceptible stir among the members of the High
Council, for even the liberals were, it would seem, taken aback by a
departure which they themselves had not instituted. Olivia, still in
submission to tradition which she could not violate, had gained the
time for which she hoped. With a grace that was like the conferring
of a royal favour, Prince Tabnit appointed the meeting of the High
Council for noon on the following day.
"May the gods permit the possible," he added, and once more extended
his hand to Olivia. This time, with lowered eyes, she gave him the
tips of her fingers and, as the beckoning music swelled a delicate
prelude, she stepped from the dais and suffered the prince to lead
her toward the banquet hall.
Amory drew a long breath, and it came to St. George that if he,
Amory, said anything about what he would give if he had a leased
wire to the _Sentinel_ Office, there would no longer be room on the
island for them both. But Amory said no such thing. Instead, he
looked at St. George in distinct hesitation.
"I say," he brought out finally, "St. George, by Jove, do you know,
it seems to me I've seen Miss Frothingham before. And how jolly
beautiful she is," he added almost reverently.
"Maybe it was when you were a Phoenician galley slave and she went
by in a trireme," offered St. George, trying to keep in sight the
bright hair and the floating veil beyond the press of the crowd.
Would he see Olivia and would he be able to speak with her, and did
she know he was there, and would she be angry? Ah well, she could
not possibly be angry, he thought; but with all this in his mind it
was hardly reasonable of Amory to expect him to speculate on where
Miss Frothingham might have been seen before. If it weren't for this
Balator now, St. George said to himself restlessly, and suddenly
observed that Balator was expecting them to follow him. So, in the
slow-moving throng, all soft hues and soft laughter, they made their
way toward the colonnade that cut off the banquet room. And at every
step St. George thought, "she has passed here--and here--and here,"
and all the while, through the mighty open rafters in the conical
roof, were to be seen those strange banners joyously floating in the
delicate, alien light. The wine of the moment flowed in his veins,
and he moved under strange banners, with a strange ecstasy in his
heart.
Therefore, suddenly to hear Rollo's voice at his shoulder came as a
distinct shock.
"It's one of them little brown 'uns, sir," Rollo announced in his
best tone of mystery. "He's settin' upstairs, sir, an' he's all fer
settin' there _till_ he sees you. He says it's most important, sir."
Amory heard.
"Shall I go up?" he asked eagerly; "I'd like a whiff of a pipe,
anyway. It'll be something to tie to."
"Will you go?" asked St. George in undisguised gratitude. He was
prepared to accept most risks rather than to lose sight of the star
he was following.
With a word to Balator who explained where, on his return, he could
find them, Amory turned with Rollo, and slipped through the crowd.
Having reasons of his own for getting back to the hall below, Amory
was prepared to speed well the interview with "the little brown 'un"
who, he supposed, was Jarvo.
It was Jarvo--Jarvo, in a state of excitement, profound and
incredible. The little man, from the annoyingly serene mode of mind
in which he had left them, was become, for him, almost agitated. He
sprang up from a divan in the great dressing-room of their apartment
and approached Amory almost without greeting.
"Adôn, adôn," he said earnestly, "you must leave the palace at
once--at once. But to-night!"
Amory hunted for his pipe, found and lighted it, pressing a
cigarette upon Jarvo who accepted, and held it, alight, in the palm
of his hand.
"To-night," he repeated, as if it were a game.
"Ah well, now," said Amory reasonably, "why, Jarvo? And we so
comfortable."
The little man looked at Amory beseechingly.
"I know what I know," he said earnestly, "many things will happen.
There is danger about the palace to-night--danger it may be for you.
I do not know all, but I come to warn you, and to warn the adôn who
has been kind to us. You have brought us here when we were alone in
America," said Jarvo simply. "Akko and I will help you now. It was
Akko who remembered the tower."
Amory looked down at the bowl of his pipe, and shook his vestas in
their box, and turned his eyes to Rollo, listening near by with an
air of the most intense abstraction. Yes, all these things were
real. They were all real, and here was he, Amory, smoking. And yet
what was all this amazing talk about danger in the palace, and being
warned, and remembering the tower?
"Anybody would think I was Crass, writing head-lines," he told
himself, and blew a cloud of smoke through which to look at Jarvo.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded sternly.
Jarvo had a little key in his hand, which he shook. The key was on a
slender, carved ring, and it jingled. And when he offered it to him
Amory abstractedly took it.
"See, adôn," said Jarvo, "see! In the ilex grove on the road that we
took last night there is a white tower--it may be that you have
noticed it to-day. That tower is empty, and this is the key. There
may be guards, but I shall know how to pass among them. You must
come with me there to-night, the three. Even then it may be too
late, I do not know. The gods will permit the possible. But this I
know: the Royal Guard are of the lahnas, on whom the tax to make
good the Hereditary Treasure will fall most heavily. They are filled
with rage against your people--you and the king who is of your
people. I do not know what they will do, but you are not safe for
one moment in the palace. I come to warn you."
Amory's pipe went out. He sat pulling at it abstractedly, trying to
fit together what St. George had told him of the Hereditary Treasure
situation. And more than at any other time since his arrival on the
island his heart leaped up at the prospect of promised adventure.
What if St. George's romantic apostasy were not, after all, to spoil
the flavour of the kind of adventure for which he, Amory, had been
hoping? He leaned eagerly forward.
"What would you suggest?" he said.
Jarvo's eyes brightened. At once he sprang to his feet and stood
before Amory, taking soft steps here and there as he talked, in
movement graceful and tenuous as the greyhound of which he had
reminded St. George.
"In the palace yard," explained the little man rapidly, "is a motor
which came from Melita, bringing guests for the ceremony of
to-night. They will remain in the palace until after the marriage of
the prince, two days hence. But the motor--that must go back
to-night to Melita, adôn. I have made for myself permission to take
it there. But you--the three--must go with me. At the tower in the
ilex grove I shall leave you, and I shall return. Is this good?"
"Excellent. But what afterward?" demanded Amory. "Are we all to keep
house in the tower?"
Jarvo shook his head, like a man who has thought of everything.
"Through to-morrow, yes," he said, "but to-morrow night, when the
dark falls--"
He bent forward and spoke softly.
"Did not the adôn wish to ascend the mountain?" he asked.
"Rather," said Amory, "but how, good heavens?"
"I and Akko wish to ascend also; the prince has sent us no message,
and we fear him," said Jarvo simply. "There are on the island, adôn,
six carriers, trained from birth to make the ascent. They are the
sons of those whose duty it was to ascend, and they the sons for
many generations. The trail is very steep, very perilous. Six were
taught to go up with messages long before the knowledge of the
wireless way, long before the flight of the airships. They are
become a tradition of the island. It is with them that you must
ascend--if you have no fear."
"Fear!" cried Amory. "But these men, what of them? They are in the
employ of the State. How do you know they will take us?"
Jarvo dropped his eyes.
"I and Akko," he said quietly, "we are two of these six carriers,
adôn."
Then Amory leaped up, scattering the ashes of his pipe over the
tiles. This, then, was what was the matter with the feet of the two
men, about which they had all speculated on the deck of _The Aloha_,
the feet trained from birth to make the ascent of the steep trail,
feet become long, tenuous, almost prehensile--
"It's miracles, that's what it is," declared Amory solemnly. "How on
earth did they come to take you to New York?" he could not forbear
asking.
"The prince knew nothing of your country, adôn," answered Jarvo
simply. "He might have needed us to enter it."
"To climb the custom-house," said Amory abstractedly, and laughed
out suddenly in sheer light-heartedness. Here was come to them an
undertaking to which St. George himself must warm as he had warmed
at the prospect of the voyage. To go up the mountain to the
threshold of the king's palace, where lived the daughter of the
king.
Amory bent himself with a will to mastering each detail of the
little man's proposals. Rollo, they decided, was at once to make
ready a few belongings in the oil-skins. Immediately after the
banquet St. George and Amory were to mingle with the throng and
leave the palace--no difficult matter in the press of the
departures--and, on the side of the courtyard beneath the windows of
the banquet room, Jarvo, already joined by Rollo, would be awaiting
them in the motor bound for Melita.
"It sounds as if it couldn't be done," said Amory in intense
enjoyment. "It's bully."
He paced up and down the room, talking it over. He folded his arms,
and looked at the matter from all sides and wondered, as touching a
story being "covered" for Chillingworth, whether he were leaving
anything unthought.
"Chillingworth!" he said to himself in ecstasy. "Wouldn't
Chillingworth dote to idolatry upon this sight?"
Then Amory stood still, facing something that he had not seen
before. He had come, in his walk, upon a little table set near the
room's entrance, and bearing a decanter and some cups.
"Hello," he said, "Rollo, where did this come from?"
Rollo came forward, velvet steps, velvet pressing together of his
hands, face expressionless as velvet too.
"A servant of 'is 'ighness, sir," he said--Rollo did that now and
then to let you know that his was the blood of valets--"left it some
time ago, with the compliments of the prince. It looks like a good,
nitzy Burgundy, sir," added Rollo tolerantly, "though the man did
say it was bottled in something B.C., sir, and if it was it's most
likely flat. You can't trust them vintages much farther back than
the French Revolootion, beggin' your pardon, sir."
Amory absently lifted the decanter, and then looked at it with some
curiosity. The decanter was like a vase, ornamented with gold
medallions covered with exquisite and precise engraving of great
beauty and variety of design. Serpents, men contending with lions,
sacred trees and apes were chased in the gold, and the little cups
of sard were engraved in pomegranates and segments of fruit and
pendent acorns, and were set with cones of cornelian. The cups were
joined by a long cord of thick gold.
Amory set his hand to the little golden stopper, perhaps
hermetically sealed, he thought idly, at about the time of the
accidental discovery of glass itself by the Phoenicians. Amory was
not imaginative, but as he thought of the possible age of the wine,
there lay upon him that fascination communicable from any link
between the present and the living past.
"Solomon and Sargon," he said to himself, "the geese in the capitol,
Marathon, Alexander, Carthage, the Norman conquest, Shakespeare and
Miss Frothingham!"
He smiled and twisted the carven stopper.
"And the girl is alive," he said almost wonderingly. "There has been
so much Time in the world, and yet she is alive now. Down there in
the banquet room."
The odour of the contents of the vase, spicy, penetrating,
delicious, crept out, and he breathed it gratefully. It was like no
odour that he remembered. This was nothing like Rollo's "good, nitzy
Burgundy"--this was something infinitely more wonderful. And the
odour--the odour was like a draught. And wasn't this the wine of
wines, he asked himself, to give them courage, exultation, the most
superb daring when they started up that delectable mountain? St.
George must know; he would think so too.
"Oh, I say," said Amory to himself, "we must put some strength in
Jarvo's bones too--poor little brick!"
With that Amory drew the carven stopper, fitted in the little funnel
that hung about the neck of the vase, poured a half-finger of the
wine in each cup, and lifted one in his hand. But the mere odour was
enough to make a man live ten lives, he thought, smiling at his own
strange exultation. He must no more than touch it to his lips, for
he wanted a clear head for what was coming.
"Come, Jarvo," he cried gaily--was he shouting, he wondered, and
wasn't that what he was trying to do--to shout to make some far-away
voice answer him? "Come and drink to the health of the prince. Long
may he live, long may he live--without us!"
Amory had stood with his back to the little brown man while he
poured the wine. As he turned, he lifted one cup to his lips and
Rollo gravely presented the other to Jarvo. But with a bound that
all but upset the velvet valet, the little man cleared the space
between him and Amory and struck the cup from Amory's hand.
"Adôn!" he cried terribly, "adôn! Do not drink--do not drink!"
The precious liquid splashed to the floor with the falling cup and
ran red about the tiles. Instantly a powerful and delightful
fragrance rose, and the thick fumes possessed the air. Amory threw
out his hands blindly, caught dizzily at Rollo, and was half dragged
by Jarvo to the open window.
"Oh, I say, sir--" burst out Rollo, more upset over the loss of the
wine than he was alarmed at the occurrence. If it came to losing a
good, nitzy Burgundy, Rollo knew what that meant.
"Adôn," cried Jarvo, shaking Amory's shoulders, "did you taste the
liquor--tell me--the liquor--did you taste?"
Amory shook his head. Jarvo's face and the hovering Rollo and the
whole room were enveloped in mist, and the wine was hot on his lips
where the cup had touched them. Yet while he stood there, with that
permeating fragrance in the air, it came to him vaguely that he had
never in his life known a more perfectly delightful moment. If this,
he said to himself vaguely, was what they meant by wine in the old
days, then so far as his own experience went, the best "nitzy"
Burgundy was no more than a flabby, _vin ordinaire_ beside it. Not
that "flabby" was what he meant to call it, but that was the word
that came. For he felt as if no less than six men were flowing in
his veins, he summed it up to himself triumphantly.
But after all, the effect was only momentary. Almost as quickly as
those strange fumes had arisen they were dissipated. And when
presently Amory stood up unsteadily from the seat of the window, he
could see clearly enough that Jarvo, with terrified eyes, was
turning the vase in his hands.
"It is the same," he was saying, "it must be the same. The gods have
permitted the possible. I was here to tell you."
"Tell me what?" demanded Amory with ungrateful irritation. "Is the
stuff poison?" he asked, tottering in spite of himself as he crossed
the floor toward him. But Jarvo turned his face, and upon it was
such an incongruous terror that Amory involuntarily stood still.
"There are known to be two," said Jarvo, holding the vase at arm's
length, "and the one is abundant life, if the draught is not
over-measured. But the other is ten thousand times worse than
death."
"What do you mean?" cried Amory roughly. "What are you talking
about? If the stuff is poison can't you say so?"
Jarvo looked at him swiftly.
"These things are not spoken aloud in Yaque," he said simply, and
after that he held his peace. Amory threatened him and laughed at
him, but Jarvo shook his head. At last Amory scoffed at the whole
matter and stretched out his hand for the vase.
"Come," he said, "at all events I'll take it with me. It can't be
very much worse than the American liqueurs."
"My word for it, sir, beggin' your pardon," said Rollo earnestly,
"it's a kind of what you might call med-i-eval Burgundy, sir."
"It is not well," said Jarvo, handing the vase with reluctance, "yet
take it--but see that it touches no lips. I charge you that, adôn."
Amory smiled and slipped the little vase in his coat pocket.
"It's all right," he said, "I won't let it get away from me. I can
find my legs now; I'll go back down. Look sharp, Rollo. Be down
there with the oil-skins. We put on this Tyrian purple stuff over
the whole outfit," he explained to Jarvo, "and I suppose, you know,
that you can get both robes back here for us, if we escape in them?"
"Assuredly, adôn," said Jarvo, "and you must escape without delay.
This wine must mean that the prince, too, wishes you harm. Now let
me be before you for a little, so that no one may see us together. I
shall go now, immediately, to the motor--it is waiting already by
the wall on the side of the courtyard opposite the windows of the
banquet hall. I shall not fail you."
"On the side of the courtyard opposite the windows of the banquet
room," repeated Amory. "Thanks, Jarvo. You're all kinds of a good
fellow."
"Yes, adôn," gravely assented the little man from the threshold.
Ten minutes later Amory followed. Already Rollo had packed the
oil-skins, and Amory, his nerves steadied and the excitement of all
that the night promised come upon him, hurried before him down the
corridor, his thoughts divided in their allegiance between the
delight of telling St. George what was toward, and the new and
alluring delight of seeing Antoinette Frothingham near at hand in
the banquet room. After all, he had had only the vaguest glimpse of
a little figure in rose and silver, and he doubted if he could tell
her from the princess, but for the interpreting gown.
Amory looked up with an irrepressible thrill of delight. He was just
at that moment crossing the high white audience-hall, the anteroom
to the Hall of Kings--he, Amory, in Tyrian purple garments. If
anything were needed to complete the picture it would be to meet
face to face, there in that big, lonely room, a little figure in
rose and silver. It made his heart beat even to think of the
possibilities of that situation. He skirted the Hall of Kings, and
stood in one of the archways of the colonnade, facing the banquet
room.
The banquet-table extended about three sides of the room, whose
centre the guests faced. The middle space was left pure, unvexed by
columns or furnishing. At the room's far end Amory glimpsed the
prince, at his side Olivia's white veil, and her women about her;
and, nearer, St. George and Balator in the place appointed. A guard
came to conduct him, and he crossed to his seat and sank down with
the look that could be made to mean whatever Amory meant.
"I expect to be served," murmured the journalist in him, "by
beautiful tame megatheriums, in sashes. And is that glyptodon
salad?"
St. George's eyes were upon the guests, so tranquilly seated, aware
of the hour.
"I fancy," he said in half-voice, "that presently we shall see
little flames issuing from their hair, as there used from the hair
of the ladies in Werner's ballets."
Then as Balator leaned toward him in his splendid leisure, fostering
his charm, there came an amazing interruption.
The low key of the room was electrically raised by a cry, loosed
from some other plight of being, like an odour of burning
encroaching upon a garden.
"Why have you not waited?" some one called, and the voice--clear,
equal, imperious--evened its way upon the air and reduced to itself
the soft speech of the others. Silence fell upon them all, and
their eyes were toward a figure standing in the open interval of the
room--a figure whose aspect thrilled St. George with sudden,
inexplicable emotion.
It was an old man, incredibly old, so that one thought first of his
age. His beard and hair were not all grey, but he had grotesquely
brown and wrinkled flesh. His stuff robe hung in straight folds
about his singularly erect figure, and there was in his bearing the
dignity of one who has understood all fine and gentle things, all
things of quietude. But his look was vacant, as if the mind were
asleep.
"Why have you not waited?" he repeated almost wonderingly. "Why have
you not sent for me?" and his eyes questioned one and another, and
rested on the face of the prince upon the dais, with Olivia by his
side. The guard, whom in some fashion the strange old man had
eluded, hurried from the borders of the room. But he broke from them
and was off up half the length of the hall toward the prince's seat.
"Do you not know?" he cried as he went, "I am Malakh. Read one
another's eyes and you will know. I am Malakh."
As the guards closed about him he tottered and would have fallen
save that they caught him roughly and pressed to a door, half
carrying him, and he did not resist. But as speech was renewed
another voice broke the murmur, and with great amazement St. George
knew that this was Olivia's voice.
"No," she cried--but half as if she distrusted her own strange
impulse, "let him stay--let him stay."
St. George saw the prince's look question her. He himself was unable
to account for her unexpected intercession, and so, one would have
said, was Olivia. She looked up at the prince almost fearfully, and
down the length of the listening table, and back to the old man
whose eyes were upon her face.
"He is an old man, your Highness," St. George heard her saying, "let
him stay."
Prince Tabnit, who gave a curious impression of doing everything
that he did in obedience to inertia rather than in its defiance,
indicated some command to the puzzled guards, and they led old
Malakh to a stone bench not far from the dais, and there he sank
down, looking about him without surprise.
"It is well," he said simply, "Malakh has come."
While St. George was marveling--but not that the old man spoke the
English, for in Yaque it was not surprising to find the very madmen
speaking one's own tongue--Balator explained the man.
"He is a poor mad creature," Balator said. "He walks the streets of
Med saying 'Melek, Melek,' which is to say, 'king,' and so he is
seeking the king. But he is mad, and they say that he always weeps,
and therefore they pretend to believe that he says 'Malakh,' which
is to say 'salt.' And they call him that for his tears. Doubtless
the princess does not understand. Her Highness has a tender heart."
St. George was silent. The incident was trivial, but Olivia had
never seemed so near.
Sometimes in the world of commonplace there comes an extreme hour
which one afterward remembers with "Could that have been I? But
could it have been I who did that?" And one finds it in one's heart
to be certain that it was not one's self, but some one else--some
one very near, some one who is always sharing one's own
consciousness and inexplicably mixing with one's moments. "Perhaps,"
St. George would have said, "there is some such person who is
nearly, but not quite, I myself. And if there is, it was he and not
I who was at that banquet!" It was one of the hours which seem to
have been made with no echo. It was; and then passed into other
ways, and one remembered only a brightness. For example, St. George
listened to what Balator said, and he heard with utmost
understanding, and with the frequent pleasure of wonder, and was now
and then exquisitely amused as one is amused in dreams. But even as
he listened, if he tried to remember the last thing that was said,
and the next to the last thing, he found that these had escaped him;
and as he rose from the table he could not recall ten words that had
been spoken. It was as if the some one very near, who is always
sharing one's consciousness and inexplicably mixing with one's
moments, had taken St. George's part at the banquet while he,
himself, sat there in the rôle of his own outer consciousness. But
neither he nor that hypothetical "some one else," who was also he,
lost for one instant the heavenly knowledge that Olivia was up there
at the head of the table.
Amory, in spite of diplomatic effort, had not succeeded in imparting
to St. George anything of his talk with Jarvo. Balator was too near,
and the place was somehow too generally attentive to permit a secret
word. So, as they rose from the table, St. George was still in
ignorance of what was toward and knew nothing of either the Ilex
Tower or the possibilities of the morrow. He had only one thought,
and that was to speak with Olivia, to let her know that he was there
on the island, near her, ready to serve her--ah well, chiefly, he
did not disguise from himself, what he wanted was to look at her and
to hear her speak to him. But Amory had depended on the confusion of
the rising to communicate the great news, and to tell about Jarvo,
waiting in a motor out there in the palace courtyard, by the wall on
the side opposite the windows of the banquet room. In an auspicious
moment Amory looked warily about, thrilling with premonition of his
friend's enthusiasm.
Before he could speak, St. George uttered a startled exclamation,
caught at Amory's arm, sprang forward, and was off up the long room,
dragging Amory with him.
About the dais there was suddenly an appalling confusion. Push of
feet, murmurs, a cry and, visible over the heads between, a
glistening of gold uniforms closing about the throne seats, flashing
back to the long, open windows, disappearing against the night...
"What is it?" cried Amory as he ran. "What is it?"
"Quick," said St. George only, "I don't know. They've gone with
her."
Amory did not understand, but he saw that Olivia's seat was empty;
and when he swept the heads for her white veil, it was not there.
"Who has?" he said.
St. George swerved to the side of the room toward the windows, and
old Malakh stood there, crying out and pointing.
"The guard, I think," St. George answered, and was over the low sill
of a window, running headlong across the courtyard, Amory behind
him. "There they go," St. George cried. "Good God, what are we to
do? There they go."
Amory looked. Down a side avenue--one of those tunnels of shadow
that taught the necessity of mystery--a great motor car was
speeding, and in the dimness the two men could see the white of
Olivia's floating veil.
At this, Amory wheeled and searched the length of wall across the
yard. If only--if only--
There on the side of the courtyard opposite the windows of the
banquet room stood the motor that was that night to go back to
Melita. Bolt upright on the seat was Jarvo, and climbing in the
tonneau, with his neck stretched toward the confusion of the palace,
was Rollo. Jarvo saw Amory, who beckoned; and in an instant the car
was beside them and the two men were over the back of the tonneau in
a flash.
"That way," cried St. George, with no time to waste on the miracle
of Jarvo's appearance, "that way--there. Where you see the white."
At a touch the motor plunged away into the fragrant darkness. Amory
looked back. Figures crowded the windows of the palace, and streamed
from the banquet hall into the courtyard. Men hurried through the
hall, and there was clamour of voices, and in the honey-coloured air
the great bulk of the palace towered like a faithless sentinel, the
alien banners in nameless colours sending streamers into the
moon-lit upper spaces.
On before, down nebulous ways, went the whiteness of the floating
veil.