th a pine torch, in order to light up the
cavern as soon as they found themselves within it. The smoky crimson
flare illuminated what seemed at a first glance to be a miniature fairy
palace studded thickly with clusters of diamonds. Long pointed
stalactites hung from the roof at almost mathematically even distances
from one another,--the walls glistened with varying shades of pink and
green and violet,--and in the very midst of the cave was a still pool of
water in which all the fantastic forms and hues of the place mirrored
themselves in miniature. In one corner the stalactites had clustered
into the shape of a large chair overhung by a canopy, and Duprez
perceiving it, exclaimed--he listened, and seemed satisfied; then,
turning away, he linked his arm through Philip's, and said,

"_Voila!_ A queen's throne! Come Mademoiselle Gueldmar, you must sit in
it!"

"But I am not a queen," laughed Thelma. "A throne is for a king--will
not Sir Phillip sit there?"

"There's a compliment for you, Phil!" cried Lorrimer, waving his torch
enthusiastically. "Let us awaken the echoes with the shout of 'Long live
the King!'"

But Errington approached Thelma, and taking her hand in his, said
gently--

"Come! let us see you throned in state, Queen Thelma! To please
me,--come!"

She looked up--the flame of the bright torch he carried illumined his
face, on which love had written what she could not fail to read,--but
she trembled as with cold, and there was a kind of appalling winder in
her troubled eyes. He whispered, "come, Queen Thelma!" As in a dream,
she allowed him to lead her to the stalactite chair, and when she was
seated therein, she endeavored to control the rapid beating of her
heart, and to smile unconcernedly on the little group that surrounded
her with shouts of mingled mirth and admiration.

"Ye look just fine!" said Macfarlane with undisguised delight. "Ye'd
mak' a grand picture, wouldn't she, Errington?"

Phillip gazed at her, but said nothing--his head was too full. Sitting
there among the glittering, intertwisted, and suspended rocks,--with the
blaze from the torches flashing on her winsome face and luxuriant
hair,--with that half-troubled, half-happy look in her eyes, and an
uncertain shadowy smile quivering on her sweet lips, the girl looked
almost dangerously lovely,--Helen of Troy could scarce have fired more
passionate emotion among the old-world heroes than she unconsciously
excited at that moment in the