“Didn’t I tell you that I knew my daughter?” he said.

“And I told you something too, O King,” I replied—­my eyes daring at last to rest on Calypso with the love and pride of my heart.

“And where on earth have you been, young man?” he asked, laughing.  “Did Tobias kidnap you too?”

It was very hard, as you will have seen, to astonish the “King.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Gathering Up the Threads.

But, though it was hard to astonish and almost impossible to alarm the “King,” his sense of wonder was quite another matter, and the boyish delight with which he listened to our several stories would have made it worth while to undergo tenfold the perils we had faced.  And the best of it was that we each had a new audience in the others—­for none of us knew what had happened to the rest, and how it chanced that we should all come to meet at that moment of crisis on the sea.  Our stories, said the “King,” were quite in the manner of “The Arabian Nights,” dovetailing one into the other.

“And now,” he added, “we will begin with the Story of the Murdered Slave and the Stolen Lady.”

Calypso told her story simply and in a few words.  The first part of it, of which the poor murdered Samson had been the eloquent witness, needed no further telling.  He had done his brave best—­poor fellow—­but Tobias had had six men with him, and it was soon over.  Her they had gagged and bound and carried in a sort of improvised sedan-chair; Tobias had done the thing with a certain style and—­she had to admit—­with absolute courtesy.

When they had gone a mile or two from the house, he had had the gag taken from her mouth, and, on her promise not to attempt to escape (which was, of course, quite impossible) he had also had her unbound, so that her hurried journey through the woods was made as comfortable as possible.  Certainly it had not been without its spice of romance, for four of the men had carried lanterns, and their progress must have had a very picturesque effect lighting up the blackness of the strange trees.

Tobias had walked at her side the whole way, without speaking a word.

They were making, she had gathered—­and as we had surmised—­for the northern shore, and, after about a three hours’ march, she heard the sound of the sea.  On the schooner she had found a cabin all nicely prepared for her—­even dainty toilet necessaries—­and an excellent dinner was served, on some quite pretty china, to her alone.  Poor Tobias had seemed bent on showing—­as he had said to Tom—­that he was not the “carrion” we had thought him.

After dinner, Tobias had respectfully asked leave for a few words with her.  He had apologised for his action, but explained that it was necessary—­the only way he had left, he said, of protecting his own interests, and safeguarding a treasure which belonged to him and no one else, if it belonged to any living man.  It had seemed to her that it was a monomania with him.  His eyes had gleamed so, as he spoke of it, that she had felt a little frightened for the first time—­for he seemed like a madman on the subject.