and always--always, ever since he could
remember, only that he hadn't known that he was waiting for her, and
now he knew--now he knew.

"Must you not have known, up there in the palace," he besought her,
"the night that I got there? And yesterday, all day yesterday, you
must have known--didn't you know? I love you, Olivia. I couldn't
have told you, I couldn't have let you know, only now, when we can't
know what may come or what they may do--oh, say you forgive me.
Because I love you--I love you."

She rose swiftly, her veil floating about her, silver over the gold
of her hair; and the light caught the enchantment of the gems of the
strange crown they had set upon her head, and she looked down at
him in almost unearthly beauty. He stood before her, waiting for the
moment when she should lift her eyes. And the eyes were lifted, and
he held out his arms, and straight to them, regardless of the
coronation laces of Queen Mitygen, went Olivia, Princess of Yaque.
He put aside her shining hair, as he had put it aside in that divine
moment in the motor in the palace wood; and their lips met, in that
world that was like the shoreless open sea where earth reflects
heaven, and heaven comes down.

They sat upon the white-cushioned divan, and St. George half knelt
beside her as he had knelt that night in the fleeing motor, and
there were an hundred things to say and an hundred things to hear.
And because this fragment of the past since they had met was
incontestably theirs, and because the future hung trembling before
them in a mist of doubt, they turned happy, hopeful eyes to that
future, clinging to each other's hands. The little chamber of
translucent white, where one looked down to a mirrored dome and up
to a kind of sky, became to them a place bounded by the touch and
the look and the voice of each other, as every place in the world is
bounded for every heart that beats.

"Sweetheart," said St. George presently, "do you remember that you
are a princess, and I'm merely a kind of man?"

Was it not curious, he thought, that his lips did not speak a new
language of their own accord?

"I know," corrected Olivia adorably, "that I'm a kind of princess.
But what use is that when it only makes trouble for us?"

"Us"--"makes trouble for us." St. George wondered how he could ever
have thought that he even guessed what happiness might be when
"trouble for us" was like this. He tried to say so, and then:

"But do you know what yo