“The building was done by convicts.  The story is that convicts were transported here from all over the kingdom.”

“Did they live in the city?”

“No; they had a kind of camp across the creek.  They dug out the harbour too, and kept it clear of sand.  You can still see the marks of their pickaxes along the cliffs; I’ll show them to you some day.  My father knows all about it, because his great-great-great-great—­ grandfather (and a heap more ‘greats,’ I don’t know how many) was the only one saved when the city was buried.”

“Was he from the city, or one of the convicts?” asked Honoria, who had not forgiven George’s assault upon her doll.

“He was a baby at the time, and couldn’t remember,” George answered, with fine composure.  “They say he was found high up the creek, just where you cross it by the foot-bridge.  The bridge is covered at high water; and if you try to cross below, especially when the tide is flowing, just you look out!  Twice a day the sands become quick there.  They’ve swallowed scores.  I’ll tell you another thing:  there’s a bird builds somewhere in the cliffs there—­a crake, the people call it—­and they say that whenever he goes crying about the sands, it means that a man will be drowned there.”

“Rubbish!  I don’t believe in your city.”

“Very well, then, I’ll tell you something else.  The fishermen have seen it—­five or six of them.  You know the kind of haze that gets up sometimes on hot days, when the sun’s drawing water?  They say that if you’re a mile or two out and this happens between you and Langona Creek, you can see the city quite plain above the shore, with the seven churches and all.”

“I can see it!” Taffy blurted this out almost without knowing that he spoke; and blushed furiously when George laughed.  “I mean—­I’m sure—­” he began to explain.

“If you can see it,” said Honoria, “you had better describe George’s property for him.”  She yawned.  “He can’t tell the story himself—­ not one little bit.”

“Right you are, miss,” George agreed.  “Fire away, Taffy.”

Taffy thought for a minute, then, still with a red face, began.  “It is all true, as George says.  A fine city lies there, covered with the sands; and this was what happened.  The King of Langona had a son, a handsome young Prince, who lived at home until he was eighteen, and then went on his travels.  That was the custom, you know.  The Prince took only his foster-brother, whose name was John, and they travelled for three years.  On their way back, as they came to Langona Creek, they saw the convicts at work, and in one of the fields was a girl digging alone.  She had a ring round her ankle, like the rest, with a chain and iron weight, but she was the most beautiful girl the Prince had ever seen.  So he pulled up his horse and asked her who she was, and how she came to be wearing the chain.  She told him she was no convict, but the