“Will you not understand what I mean?” he besought with passionate earnestness.  “Can I make my words mean nothing to you?  Do you not see that it is indeed as I say—­that I have grasped the secret of life within life, beyond life, transcending life, as his understanding transcends the man?  The wonder of the island is but the alphabet of wisdom.  The secrets of life and death and being itself are in my grasp.  The hidden things that come near to you in beauty, in dream, in inspiration are mine and my people’s.  All these I can make yours—­I offer you life of a fullness such as the people of the world do not dream.  I will love you as the gods love, and as the gods we will live and love—­it may be for ever.  Nothing of high wisdom shall be unrevealed to us.  We shall be what the world will be when it nears the close of time.  Come to me—­trust me—­be beside me in all the wonder that I know.  But above all, love me, for I love you more than life, and wisdom, and mystery!”

Olivia understood, and she believed.  The mystery of life had always been more real to her than its commonplaces, and all her years she had gone half-expecting to meet some one, unheralded, to whom all things would be clear, and who should make her know by some secret sign that this was so, and should share with her.  She had no doubt whatever that Prince Tabnit spoke the truth—­just as the daughter of the river-god Inachus knew perfectly that she was being wooed by a voice from the air.  Indeed, the world over, lovers promise each other infinite things, and are infinitely believed.

“I do understand you, Prince Tabnit,” Olivia said simply, “I do understand something of what you offer me.  I think that these things were not meant to be hidden from men always, so I can even believe that you have all that you say.  But—­there is something more.”

Olivia paused—­and swiftly, as if some little listening spirit had released the picture from the air, came the memory of that night when she had stood with St. George on that airy rampart beside the wall of blossoming vines.

“There is something more,” she repeated, “when two love each other very much I think that they have everything that you have said, and more.”

He looked at her in silence.  The stained light from some high window caught her veil in meshes of rose and violet—­fairy colours, witnessing the elusive, fairy, invincible truth of what she said.

“You mean that you do not love me?” said the prince gently.

“I do not love you, your Highness,” said Olivia, “and as for the wisdom of which you speak, that is worse than useless to you if you can do as you say with two quite innocent men.”  She hesitated, searching his face.  “Is there no way,” she said, “that I, the daughter of your king, can save them?  I will appeal to the people!”

The prince met her eyes steadily, adoringly.

“It would avail nothing,” he said, “they are at one with the law.  Yet there is a way that I can help you.  If Mr. St. George returns, as he must, he and his friends shall be set adrift with due ceremony—­but in an imperial airship, with a man secretly in control.  By night they can escape to their yacht.  This I will do—­upon one condition.”