so near the throne, they
were at one side, and her clear, pure profile was turned toward
them. And Olivia did not lift her eyes throughout the prime
minister's long address, of which St. George and Amory, so lapped
were they in wild projects and importunities, heard nothing until,
uttered with indescribable pompousness, as if Cassyrus were a
dowager and had made the match himself, the concluding words beat
upon St. George's heart like stones. They were the formal
announcement of the betrothal of Olivia, daughter of his Majesty,
Otho I of Yaque, to Tabnit, Prince of Yaque and Head of the House of
the Litany.

St. George saw Prince Tabnit kneel before Olivia and place a ring
upon her hand--no doubt the ring which had betrothed the island
princesses for three thousand years. He saw the High Council
standing with bowed heads, like the necessary archangels in an old
painting; he caught the flash of the turquoise-blue ephod of the
head of the religious order, as the benediction was pronounced by
its wearer. And through it all he said to himself that all would be
well if only she understood, if only she had the supreme
self-consciousness to play the game. After all he knew her so
little. He was certain of her exquisite, playful fancy, but had she
imagination? Would she see the value of the moment and watch herself
moving through it? Or would she live it with that feminine,
unhumourous seriousness which is woman's weakness? She had an
exquisite independence, he was certain that she had humour, and he
remembered how alive she had seemed to him, receptive, like a woman
with ten senses. But after all, would not her graceful sanity of
view, that sense of tradition and unerring taste which he so
reverenced, yet handicap her now and prevent her from daring
whatever she must dare?

Amory was beside himself. It was all very well to feel a great
sympathy for St. George, but the sight was more than journalistic
flesh and blood could look upon with sympathetic calm.

"An American girl!" he breathed in spite of himself. "Why, St.
George, if we can leave this island alive--"

"Well, _you_ won't," St. George explained, with brutal directness,
"unless you can cut that."

Before silence had again fallen, the prime minister, all his fever
of importance still upon him, once more faced the audience. This
time his words came to St. George like a thunderbolt:

"In three days' time, at noon, in this the Hall of Kings," he cried,
letting ea