She was veiled; but the elastic step, the girlish grace, the poise and youthful dignity were not to be mistaken.  The room whirled round St. George, and then closed in about him and grew dark.  For this was the woman advancing to her betrothal; from the manner of her entrance there could be no doubt of that.  And it was none of the daughters of the twenty peers.  It was Olivia.

She wore a trailing gown of rainbow hues, more like the hues of water than of texture, and the warm light fell upon these as she descended and variously multiplied them to beauty.  Her little feet were sandaled and a veil of indescribable thinness was wound about her abundant hair and fell across her face, but the gold of her hair escaped the veil and rippled along her gown.  Carven chains and necklaces were upon her throat, and bracelets of beaten gold and jewels upon her arms.  About her forehead glittered a jeweled band with pendent gems which, at her moving, were like noon sun upon water.

As he realized that this was indeed she whom he had come to seek, only to find her hedged about with difficulties—­and it might be by divinities—­which he had not dreamed of coping, a kind of madness seized St. George.  The lights danced before his eyes, and his impulse had to do with rushing up to the dais and crying everybody defiance but Olivia.  On the moon-lit deck of The Aloha he had dreamed out the island and the rescue of the island princess, and a possible home-going on his yacht to a home about which he had even dared to dream, too.  But it had not once occurred to him to forecast such a contingency as this, or, later, so to explain to himself Prince Tabnit’s change of purpose in permitting her recognition as Princess of Yaque—­indeed, if what Jarvo and Akko had told him in New York were accurate, in bringing her to the island at all.  And yet what, he thought crazily, if his guess at her part in this betrothal were far wrong?  What if her father’s safety were not the only consideration?  What if, not unnaturally dazzled by the fairy-land which had opened to her ... even while he feared, St. George knew far better.  But the number of terrors possible to a man in love is equal to those of battle-fields.

Amory bent toward him, murmuring excitedly.

“Jupiter,” he said, “is she the American girl?”

“She’s Miss Holland,” answered St. George miserably.

“No—­no, not the princess,” said Amory, “the other.”

St. George looked.  On the stair was a little figure in rose and silver—­very tiny, very fair, and no doubt the lawyer’s daughter.

“I dare say it is,” he told him, as one would say, “Now what the deuce of it?”