“Now we’re coming up a little—­don’t you think we’re coming up a little?  Throw it wide open, Jarvo—­now, go!”

“What are you going to do when you catch them?” demanded Amory.  “We can’t lunge into them, for fear of hurting Miss Holland.  And who knows what devilish contrivance they’ve got—­dum-dum bullets with a poison seal attachment,” prophesied Amory darkly.  “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” said St. George doggedly, “but if we can overtake them it won’t take us long to find out.”

Never so slightly the pursuers were gaining.  It was impossible to tell whether those in the flying car knew that they were followed, and if they did know, and if Olivia knew, St. George wondered whether the pursuit were to her a new alarm, or whether she were looking to them for deliverance.  If she knew!  His heart stood still at the thought—­oh, and if they had both known, that morning at breakfast at the Boris, that this was the way the genie would come out of the jar.  But how, if he were unable to help her?  And how could he help her when these others might have Heaven knew what resources of black art, art of all the colours of the Yaque spectrum, if it came to that?  The slim-trunked trees flew past them, and the tender branches brushed their shoulders and hung out their flowers like lamps.  Warm wind was in their faces, sweet, reverberant voices of the wood-things came chorusing, and ahead there in the dimness, that misty will-o’-the-wisp was her veil, Olivia’s veil.  St. George would have followed if it had led him between-worlds.

In a manner it did lead him between-worlds.  Emerging suddenly upon a broader avenue their car followed the other aside and shot through a great gateway of the palace wall—­a wall built of such massive blocks that the gateway formed a covered passageway.  From there, delicately lighted, greenly arched, and on this festal night, quite deserted, went the road by which, the night before, they had entered Med.

“Now,” said St. George between set teeth, “now see what you can do, Jarvo.  Everything depends on you.”

Evidently Jarvo had been waiting for this stretch of open road and expecting the other car to take it.  He bent forward, his wiry little frame like a quivering spring controlling the motion.  The motor leaped at his touch.  Away down the road they tore with the wind singing its challenge.  Second by second they saw their gain increase.  The uniforms of the guards in the car became distinguishable.  The white of Olivia’s veil merged in the brightness of her gown—­was it only the shining of the gold of the uniforms or could St. George see the floating gold of her hair?  Ah, wonderful, past all speech it was wonderful to be fleeing toward her through this pale light that was like a purer element than light itself.  With the phantom moving of the boughs in the wood on either side light seemed to dance and drip from leaf to leaf—­the visible spirit of the haunted green.  The unreality of it all swept over him almost stiflingly.  Olivia—­was it indeed Olivia whom he was following down lustrous ways of a land vague as a star; or was his pursuit not for her, but for the exquisite, incommunicable Idea, and was he following it through a world forth-fashioned from his own desire?