Amory bent himself with a will to mastering each detail of the little man’s proposals.  Rollo, they decided, was at once to make ready a few belongings in the oil-skins.  Immediately after the banquet St. George and Amory were to mingle with the throng and leave the palace—­no difficult matter in the press of the departures—­and, on the side of the courtyard beneath the windows of the banquet room, Jarvo, already joined by Rollo, would be awaiting them in the motor bound for Melita.

“It sounds as if it couldn’t be done,” said Amory in intense enjoyment.  “It’s bully.”

He paced up and down the room, talking it over.  He folded his arms, and looked at the matter from all sides and wondered, as touching a story being “covered” for Chillingworth, whether he were leaving anything unthought.

“Chillingworth!” he said to himself in ecstasy.  “Wouldn’t Chillingworth dote to idolatry upon this sight?”

Then Amory stood still, facing something that he had not seen before.  He had come, in his walk, upon a little table set near the room’s entrance, and bearing a decanter and some cups.

“Hello,” he said, “Rollo, where did this come from?”

Rollo came forward, velvet steps, velvet pressing together of his hands, face expressionless as velvet too.

“A servant of ’is ’ighness, sir,” he said—­Rollo did that now and then to let you know that his was the blood of valets—­“left it some time ago, with the compliments of the prince.  It looks like a good, nitzy Burgundy, sir,” added Rollo tolerantly, “though the man did say it was bottled in something B.C., sir, and if it was it’s most likely flat.  You can’t trust them vintages much farther back than the French Revolootion, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

Amory absently lifted the decanter, and then looked at it with some curiosity.  The decanter was like a vase, ornamented with gold medallions covered with exquisite and precise engraving of great beauty and variety of design.  Serpents, men contending with lions, sacred trees and apes were chased in the gold, and the little cups of sard were engraved in pomegranates and segments of fruit and pendent acorns, and were set with cones of cornelian.  The cups were joined by a long cord of thick gold.

Amory set his hand to the little golden stopper, perhaps hermetically sealed, he thought idly, at about the time of the accidental discovery of glass itself by the Phoenicians.  Amory was not imaginative, but as he thought of the possible age of the wine, there lay upon him that fascination communicable from any link between the present and the living past.

“Solomon and Sargon,” he said to himself, “the geese in the capitol, Marathon, Alexander, Carthage, the Norman conquest, Shakespeare and Miss Frothingham!”

He smiled and twisted the carven stopper.

“And the girl is alive,” he said almost wonderingly.  “There has been so much Time in the world, and yet she is alive now.  Down there in the banquet room.”