For before Luttrell could speak another word, the music crashed and all that assemblage was on its feet.  The orchestra was playing the Swedish National Anthem; and upon that, one after the other, followed the hymns of the peoples who had taken part in the Games.  In turn the representatives of each people stood and resumed their seat, the music underlining their individuality and parking them in sections, even as rivalry had parked them in the Stadium.  The majestic anthem of Russia, the paean of the Marseillaise, the livelier march of Italy, the song of Germany, the Star-Spangled Banner; and long before the band struck into the solemn rhythm of “God save the King,” Stella Croyle at all events knew that Calypso had lost.  For she saw a flame illumine Luttrell’s face and transfigure him.  He had slipped out of her reach.  The doubts and perplexities which had so troubled him during the last months were now resolved.  As he listened to the Hymns, he saw as in a vision the nations advancing abreast over a vast plain like battalions in line with their intervals for manoeuvring spaced out between them.  In front of each nation rolled a grey vapour, which gradually took shape before Luttrell’s eyes; and there was made visible to him a shadowy legion of men marching in the van, the men who had left ease and women and all the grace of life behind them and had gone out to die in the harness of service—­one in this, one in that corner of the untravelled world, and now all reunited in a strong fellowship.  The vision remained with him after the last strains of music had died away, and faded slowly.  He waked to the lights and clamour of the restaurant and turned to Stella Croyle.

“Stella,” he began, and——­

“I know,” she interrupted in a small voice.  She was sitting with her head downcast and her hands clenched upon her lap so tightly that the skin was white about the points where the tips of her fingers pressed.  “Perhaps I shan’t suffer so very much.”

She was careful not to lift her head, and when a few moments later their host gave the signal to move, she rose quickly and turned her back on Luttrell.

The party motored back through the Dyurgarden, past the glimmering tents where the Boy-Scouts were encamped to the great hotel by the landing-stage.  There a wait of a few minutes took place whilst Hardiman settled for the cars, and during that wait Luttrell disappeared.  He rejoined his friends at the harbour steps and when the launch put off towards the Dragonfly, he found himself side by side with Stella Croyle.  In the darkness she relaxed her guard.  Luttrell saw the great tears glisten on her dark eyelashes and fall down her cheeks.

“I am sorry, Stella,” he whispered, dropping his hand on hers, and she clutched it and let it go.

“Perhaps I shan’t suffer so very much,” she repeated and the next moment the gangway light shone down upon their faces.  Stella dropped her head and furtively dried her cheeks.