“My word!” exclaimed the admiring Bowles.

“Chase, you may be theatric, but you are the most dependable chap the world has ever known,” said Deppingham, and he meant it.

The warships remained off the harbour all that day.  Officers from both ships were landed and escorted to the chateau, where joy reigned supreme, notwithstanding the fact that the grandchildren of the old men of the island were morally certain that their cause was lost.  The British captain undertook to straighten out matters on the island.  He consented to leave a small detachment of marines in the town to protect Chase and the bank, and he promised the head men of the village, whom he had brought aboard the ship, that no mercy would be shown if he or the American captain was compelled to make a second visit in response to a call for aid.  To a man the islanders pledged fealty to the cause of peace and justice:  they shouted the names of Chase and Allah in the same breath, and demanded of the latter that He preserve the former’s beard for all eternity.

The King’s Own was to convey the liberated heirs, their goods and chattels, their servants and their penates (if any were left inviolate) to Aden, whither the cruiser was bound.  At that port a P. & O. steamer would pick them up.  One white man elected to stay on the island with Hollingsworth Chase, who steadfastly refused to desert his post until Sir John Brodney indicated that his mission was completed.  That one man was the wearer of the red jacket, the bearer of the King’s commission in Japat, the undaunted Mr. Bowles, won over from his desire to sit once more on the banks of the Serpentine and to dine forever in the Old Cheshire Cheese.

The Princess Genevra, the wistful light deepening hourly in her blue-grey eyes, avoided being alone with the man whom she was leaving behind.  She had made up her mind to accept the fate inevitable; he had reconciled himself to the ending of an impossible dream.  There was nothing more to say, except farewell.  She may have bled in her soul for him and for the happiness that was dying as the minutes crept on to the hour of parting, but she carefully, deliberately concealed the wounds from all those who stood by and questioned with their eyes.

She was a princess of Rapp-Thorberg!

The last day dawned.  The sun smiled down upon them.  The soft breeze of the sea whispered the curse of destiny into their ears; it crooned the song of heritage; it called her back to the fastnesses where love may not venture in.

The chateau was in a state of upheaval; the exodus was beginning.  Servants and luggage had departed on their way to the dock.  Palanquins were waiting to carry the lords and ladies of the castle down to the sea.  The Princess waited until the last moment.  She went to him.  He was standing apart from the rest, coldly indifferent to the pangs he was suffering.

“I shall love you always,” she said simply, giving him her hand.  “Always, Hollingsworth.”  Her eyes were wide and hopeless, her lips were white.