Suddenly indistinguishable sounds were in his ears, words from Amory, from Jarvo certain exultant gutturals.  He felt the car slacken speed, he looked ahead for the swift beckoning of the veil, and then he saw that where, in the delicate distance, the other motor had sped its way, it now stood inactive in the road before them, and they were actually upon it.  The four guards in the motor were standing erect with uplifted faces, their gold uniforms shining like armour.  But this was not all.  There, in the highway beside the car, the mist of her veil like a halo about her, Olivia stood alone.

St. George did not reckon what they meant to do.  He dropped over the side of the tonneau and ran to her.  He stood before her, and all the joy that he had ever known was transcended as she turned toward him.  She threw out her hands with a little cry—­was it gladness, or relief, or beseeching?  He could not be certain that there was even recognition in her eyes before she tottered and swayed, and he caught her unconscious form in his arms.  As he lifted her he looked with apprehension toward the car that held the guards.  To his bewilderment there was no car there.  The pursued motor, like a winged thing of the most innocent vagaries, had taken itself off utterly.  And on before, the causeway was utterly empty, dipping idly between murmurous green.  But at the moment St. George had no time to spend on that wonder.

He carried Olivia to the tonneau of Jarvo’s car, jealous when Rollo lifted her gown’s hem from the dust of the road and when Amory threw open the door.  He held her in his arms, half kneeling beside her, profoundly regardless where it should please the others to dispose themselves.  He had no recollection of hearing Jarvo point the way through the trees to a path that led away, as far from them as a voice would carry, to the Ilex Tower whose key burned in Amory’s pocket, promising radiant, intangible things to his imagination.  St. George understood with magnificent unconcern that Amory and Rollo were gone off there to wait for the return of him and Jarvo; he took it for granted that Jarvo had grasped that Olivia must be taken back to her aunt and her friends at the palace; and afterward he knew only, for an indeterminate space, that the car was moving across some dim, heavenly foreground to some dim, ultimate destination in which he found himself believing with infinite faith.

For this was Olivia, in his arms.  St. George looked down at her, at the white, exquisite face with its shadow of lashes, and it seemed to him that he must not breathe, or remember, or hope, lest the gods should be jealous and claim the moment, and leave him once more forlorn.  That was the secret, he thought, not to touch away the elusive moment by hope or memory, but just to live it, filled with its ecstasies, borne on the crest of its consciousness.  It seemed to him in some intimately communicated fashion, that the moment, the very world of the island, was become to him a more intense object of consciousness than himself.  And somehow Olivia was its expression—­Olivia, here in his arms, with the stir of her breath and the light, light pressure of her body and the fall of her hair, not only symbols of the sovereign hour, but the hour’s realities.