“Monilon, alive!  Are you yet alive, then?  Iona has mourned you long.”

“Ranadar, Heaven bless you forever.  Did you save my daughter?”

“I escaped, and she fled with me.”

“Ranadar, your name is terrible to your foes, but O, how sweet, how dear, to your friends.  God bless you, is an old man’s prayer.”

The Turkish vessel was plundered, and after dividing, enough was found to fill the corsairs with joy.  The Turkish prisoners were carried to Scio, and after a long time were exchanged for Greek captives.  The name of Ranadar gained new glory, and his deeds were spoken of everywhere.

One tenth of the spoil was Ranadar’s, but this he forced upon Monilon, in order to enable him again to rebuild his ruined home in Komao.  Monilon took it, for well he knew that Ranadar would have it again-well he knew it, by the happy smile and lovely blushes of Iona.

Komao rises from the sea not more than thirty miles to the north of Scio.  It is a lovely spot, where trees of luxuriant foliage and richest fruit grow on every side.  Here the vineyards are seen, where vines hang in graceful festoons from tree to tree; orchards filled with a thousand fruits, gardens where blooming and odorous flowers give forth their fragrance to the air—­running streams and gushing fountains.  In this paradise dwelt Monilon; here Iona was brought up, and here Ranadar came to take her to his home.  But that home was on the same lovely island, and there they lived in happiness such as earth can seldom bestow, for if the tenderest love and the most beautiful scenes of nature can afford happiness, then Iona and Ranadar had nothing more to desire.  The corsair seldom after sailed the sea.  He was contented to dwell at home, and ever blessed the day when he was led captive to Achmet’s dungeon.

The end.