“My people,” he said, and St. George felt himself thrilling with the strength and tenderness of that voice, “in the continuance of this our time of trial we come among you that we may win strength and courage from your presence.  Since one mind dwells in us all, we have no need of words of cheer.  That no message from his Majesty, the King, has come to us is known to you all, with mourning.  But the gods—­to whom ‘here’ is the same as ’there’—­will permit the possible, and they have permitted to us the presence of the daughter of our sovereign, by the grace of the infinite, heir to the throne of Yaque.  In two days, should his Majesty not then have returned to his sorrowing people, she will, in accordance with our custom, be crowned Hereditary Princess of Yaque and, after one year, Queen of Yaque and your rightful sovereign.”

As the prince paused, a little breath of assent was in the room, more potent than any crudity of applause.

“Next,” pursued the prince, “we would invite your attention to our own affairs, which are of importance solely as they are affected by the immemorial tradition of the House of the Litany.  Therefore, in accordance with the custom of our predecessors for two thousand years,” lightly pursued the prince, “we have named this day as the day of our betrothal.  Moreover, this is determined upon in justice to the daughters of the twenty peers of Yaque, whose marriage the law forbids until the choice of the head of the House of the Litany has been made...”

St. George listened, and his hope soared heavenward as the hope of young love will soar, in spite of itself, at the mere sight of open sky.  The daughters of the twenty peers of Yaque!  Of course they were to be considered.  Why should he fear that, because Olivia was in Yaque, the mere mention of a betrothal referred to Olivia?  He was bold enough to smile at his fears, to smile even when, as the prince ceased speaking, the music sounded again, as it were from the air, in a chorus of pure young voices with a ripple of unknown strings in accompaniment.

Suddenly, at the opening of great doors, a flood of saffron light was poured upon a stair, and at the summit appeared the leisurely head of a procession which the two men were destined never to forget.  Across the gallery and down the stair—­it might have been the Golden Stair linking Near with Far—­came a score of exquisite women in all the glory of their youth, of perfect physical beauty and splendid strength and fullness of life; and the wonder was not their beauty more than a kind of dryad delicacy of that beauty, which was yet not frailty but a look of angelic strength.  But they were not remote—­they were gloriously human, almost, one would say, divinely human, all gentle movement and warmth and tender breath.  They were not remote, save as one’s own soul would be remote by its very excess of intimacy with life, Little maids, so shy that their actuality was certain, came before them carrying flowers, and these were followed by youths scattering fragrant burning powder whose fallen flames were instantly pounced upon and extinguished by small furry lemurs trained to lay silver discs upon the flames.  And as they all ranged themselves about the throne a little figure appeared at the top of the stairway alone, beneath the lifted curtain.