he miles of sea with her hands at her breast and her
eyes clouded, oblivious of the small companions of her truancy. She
stretched out both strong young arms toward the Mediterranean.

Then she heeded the children's clamor again and, turning to them, she
laughed.

"No, no!" she teasingly answered, and the man above realized for the
first time that Portuguese is a tongue of liquid music. "These are fairy
stories without Princesses. These are perfectly good fairy stories, you
know." Then with a sudden burst of confidence, "In really-truly life,
Princesses are not much good. Don't any of you ever be a Princess if you
can help it!" After planting this seed of treasonable ideas she turned
away, adding: "No, no, no! I've run away and I must go back. To-morrow
we will have a wonderful story--but no more to-day."

Slowly she made her way down to the old gate, stopping twice to look out
to the sea, and above her, choking off the shout that clamored at his
lips, the man sat motionless and gave no intimation of his presence.

Finally he rose and made his way unsteadily back to the city. He walked
slowly down between the wine-shops, noisy with laughter, to the road
along the bay. Immersed in reflection and forgetful of his resolution to
keep as much as possible out of sight, he went openly and conspicuously
along the street that overhangs the water, where at sunset all Puntal
promenades. It was only when a detachment of soldiers in the familiar
opera-bouffe uniform went clanking by to change the guard at the Palace
gates that he remembered he was to have remained inconspicuous. With a
sense of chagrin for his indiscretion, he turned into a side street
which sloped upward toward his hotel. This street was so little used
that between its cobble stones tender sprigs of grass made the way as
green as a turf course.

CHAPTER XVII

BENTON CALLS ON THE KING

There were several things to harrow Benton's thoughts aside from the
ingenious tortures of memory. Blanco should have arrived at Monte Carlo
on the day of their separation. Benton himself had proceeded slowly to
Puntal and had now been an isolated guest at the Grand Palace Hotel for
two days, yet he had heard nothing from Manuel. Still the man from Cadiz
had not been idly cruising. The _Isis_ had duly dropped her anchor in
the ultramarine waters where the rock of Monaco juts out like a
beckoning finger, and Monte Carlo spreads the marble display of its
rococo facades a