On the way back he chanced upon Mrs. Hastings, seated on a bench of lapidescent wood in the portico—­and a Titanic portico it looked by day—­and, having sent for the palace chef, she was attempting to write down the recipe for the salad of that day’s luncheon, although it was composed chiefly of fowls now extinct everywhere excepting in Yaque.

“But my poultry man will get them for me,” she urged with determination; “I have only to tell him the name of what I want, and he can always produce it in tins, nicely labeled.”

Later, St. George came upon old Malakh, leaning on the terrace wall, looking out to sea, and stood close beside him, marveling at the pallor and the thousand wrinkles of the man’s strange face.  The face was stranger by day than it had been by night—­this St. George had felt when he went that morning to release him, and the old man leaned from the frowning bed-hangings to bid him a gentle good morning.  Could he be, St. George now wondered vaguely, a citizen of the fifteenth or twentieth dimension, and, there, did they live to his incredible age?  Then he noticed that the old man was not wearing the ruby ring.

“I wear it only when I wish to see it shine, sir,” old Malakh answered, and St. George marveled at that courteous “sir,” and at other things.

To everything that he asked him the old man returned only his urbane, unmeaning replies, touched with their melancholy symbolism.  When St. George left him it was in the hope that Olivia would consent to have him sent down the mountain, although St. George himself was half inclined to agree with Amory’s “But, really, I would far rather talk with one madman with this madman’s manners than to sup with uncouth sanity” and “After all, if he should murder us, probably no one could do it with greater delicacy.”  And Olivia had no intention of sending old Malakh back to Med.  “How could one possibly do that?” she wanted to know, and there was no oracle.

All the while the world of intangibilities was growing, growing as only that world can grow from the abysmal silence of life that went before.  St. George was saying to himself that at last the Here and the Now were infinitely desirable; and as for the fear for the morrow, what was that beside the promise of the days beyond?  At noon they all climbed the Obelisk Tower with its ceiling of carved leaves above carved leaves, and the real heavens a little farther up.  They leaned on the broad wall, cut by mock bastions and faced the glory of the sunny, trembling sea, starred with the dipping wings of gulls.  Blue sky, blue sea, eyes that saw looks that eyes did not know they gave—­ah, what a day it was!  When the rollicking wind told about that, down on the dun earth, surely it echoed their young courage, their young belief in the future, the incorruptibility of their understanding that the future was theirs, under the law.  For the wind always teaches that.  The wind is the supreme believer, and one has only to take a walk in it at this moment to know the truth.  Yet in spite of the wind, in spite of their high security, in spite of the little wing-like moments that hold not history but revelation, they were all going down the hours beneath the pendent sword of “To-morrow, at noon.”