non-comprehension, when the prince spoke:

"That," he said, "may explain why an American has been able to
govern us. Chance crowned him, but he made himself king."

Prince Tabnit hesitated and his eyes wandered--and those of St.
George followed--to a far winding dot in that opal valley, a mere
speck of silver with a prick of pink, fleeing in a cloud of sunny
dust.

"I do not know if you will know what I mean," said the prince, "but
hers is the spirit, and the spirit of her father, the king, which
Yaque had never known. It is the spirit which we of Phoenicia seem
to have lost since the wealth of the world accumulated at her ports
and she gave her trust to the hands of mariners and mercenaries, and
later bowed to the conqueror. It is the spirit that not all the
continental races, I fancy, have for endowment, but yours possesses
in rich measure. For this we would exchange half that we have
achieved."

St. George nodded, glowing.

"It is a great tribute, your Highness," he said simply, and in his
heart he laid it at Olivia's feet.

Thereafter, in the long ride to Melita, during luncheon upon a high
white terrace overlooking the sailless sea, and in the hours on the
unforgetable roads of the islands, St. George, while incommunicable
marvels revealed themselves linked with incommunicable beauty, sat
in the prince's motor, his eyes searching the horizon for that
fleeing speck of silver and pink. It did not appear again. And when
the train of the prince rolled into the yard of the Palace of the
Litany it trembled upon St. George's lips to ask whether the
formalities of the court would permit him that day to scale the
skies and call upon the royal household.

"For whatever he says, I've got to do," thought St. George, "but no
matter what he says, I shall go. Doesn't Amory realize that we've
been more than twelve hours on this island, and that nothing has
been done?"

And then as they crossed the grassy court in the delicate hush of
the merging light--the nameless radiance already penetrating the
dusk--the prince spoke smoothly, as if his words bore no import
deeper than his smile:

"You are come," he said courteously, "in time for one of the
ceremonies of our regime most important--to me. You will, I hope, do
honour to the occasion by your presence. This evening, in the Hall
of Kings in the Palace of the Litany, will occur the ceremony of my
betrothal."

"Your betrothal, your Highness?" repeated St. George uncerta