h is perhaps the only sane view. But how could he tell
to others the monstrous story of last night, and hope to be
believed?

None the less, as simply as if he had been narrating to
Chillingworth the high moment of a political convention, St. George
told the people of Yaque what had happened in that night in the room
of the tombs with that mad old Malakh whom they all remembered. It
came to him as he spoke that it was quite like telling to a field of
flowers the real truth about the wind of which they might be
supposed to know far more than he; and yet, if any one were to tell
the truth about the wind who would know how to listen? He was not
amazed that, when he had done, the people of Yaque sat in a profound
silence which might have been the silence of innocent amazement or
of utter incredulity.

But there was no mistaking the face of Prince Tabnit. Its cool
tolerant amusement suddenly sent the blood pricking to St. George's
heart and filled him with a kind of madness. What he did was the
last thing that he had intended. He turned upon the prince, and his
voice went cutting to the farthest corner of the hall:

"Men and women of Yaque," he cried, "I accuse your prince of the
knowledge that can take from and add to the years of man at will. I
accuse him of the deliberate and criminal use of that knowledge to
take King Otho from his throne!"

St. George hardly knew what effect his words had. He saw only
Olivia, her hands locked, her lips parted, looking in his face in
anguish; and he saw Prince Tabnit smile. Prince Tabnit sat upon the
king's left hand, and he leaned and whispered a smiling word in the
ear of his sovereign and turned a smiling face to Olivia upon her
father's right.

"I know something of your American newspapers, your Majesty," the
prince said aloud, "and these men are doing their part excellently,
excellently."

"What do you mean, your Highness?" demanded St. George curtly.

"But is it not simple?" asked the prince, still smiling. "You have
contrived a sensation for the great American newspaper. No one can
doubt."

King Otho leaned back in the beetling throne.

"Ah, yes," he said, "it is true. Something has been contrived.
But--is the sensation of _his_ contriving, Prince?"

Olivia stood silent. It was not possible, it was not possible, she
said over mechanically. For St. George to have come with this story
of a potion--a drug that had restored youth to her father, had
transformed him from