the guards in the car became
distinguishable. The white of Olivia's veil merged in the
brightness of her gown--was it only the shining of the gold of the
uniforms or could St. George see the floating gold of her hair?
Ah, wonderful, past all speech it was wonderful to be fleeing
toward her through this pale light that was like a purer element
than light itself. With the phantom moving of the boughs in the
wood on either side light seemed to dance and drip from leaf to
leaf--the visible spirit of the haunted green. The unreality of it
all swept over him almost stiflingly. Olivia--was it indeed Olivia
whom he was following down lustrous ways of a land vague as a
star; or was his pursuit not for her, but for the exquisite,
incommunicable Idea, and was he following it through a world
forth-fashioned from his own desire?

Suddenly indistinguishable sounds were in his ears, words from
Amory, from Jarvo certain exultant gutturals. He felt the car
slacken speed, he looked ahead for the swift beckoning of the veil,
and then he saw that where, in the delicate distance, the other
motor had sped its way, it now stood inactive in the road before
them, and they were actually upon it. The four guards in the motor
were standing erect with uplifted faces, their gold uniforms shining
like armour. But this was not all. There, in the highway beside the
car, the mist of her veil like a halo about her, Olivia stood alone.

St. George did not reckon what they meant to do. He dropped over the
side of the tonneau and ran to her. He stood before her, and all the
joy that he had ever known was transcended as she turned toward
him. She threw out her hands with a little cry--was it gladness, or
relief, or beseeching? He could not be certain that there was even
recognition in her eyes before she tottered and swayed, and he
caught her unconscious form in his arms. As he lifted her he looked
with apprehension toward the car that held the guards. To his
bewilderment there was no car there. The pursued motor, like a
winged thing of the most innocent vagaries, had taken itself off
utterly. And on before, the causeway was utterly empty, dipping idly
between murmurous green. But at the moment St. George had no time to
spend on that wonder.

He carried Olivia to the tonneau of Jarvo's car, jealous when Rollo
lifted her gown's hem from the dust of the road and when Amory threw
open the door. He held her in his arms, half kneeling beside her,
profoundly