“It’s a gr’it go, sir,” observed Rollo respectfully, “the woman has things to tell, sir, as people generally don’t know.  She’s flew the coop at the place she was in—­it seems she’s been shut up some’eres in America, sir; an’ she got ‘old of the capting of a tramp boat o’ some kind—­one o’ them boats as smells intoxicating round the ‘atches—­an’ she give ‘im an’ the mate a ‘andful o’ jewelry that she’d on ‘er when she was took in an’ ’ad someways contrived to ’ang on to, an’ I’m blessed hif she wasn’t able fer to steer fer the island, sir—­we took ‘er aboard the yacht only this mornin’ with ’er ‘air down her back, an’ we’ve brought ‘er on here.  An’ she says—­men can be gr’it beasts, sir, an’ no manner o’ mistake,” concluded Rollo fervently.

And a little hoarse voice said in St. George’s ear: 

“Mr. St. George, sir—­we ain’t late, are we?  We been flirtin’ de ger-avel up dat ka-liff since de car-rack o’ day.”

And there was Bennietod, with an edge of an old horse pistol showing beneath his cuff; and, round-eyed and alert as a bird newly alighted on a stranger sill, Little Cawthorne stood; and the sight put strength into St. George, and so did Little Cawthorne’s words: 

“I didn’t know whether they’d let us in or not,” he said, “unless we had on a plaited decollette, with biases down the back.”

Clearly and confidently in the silent room rang the voice of the woman confronting Prince Tabnit, and her eyes did not leave his face.  St. George was struck with the change in her since that day in the Reformatory chapel.  Then she had been like a wild, alien thing in dumb distress; now she was unchained and native.  Her first words explained why, in the extreme dilemma in which St. George had last seen her, she had yet remained mute.

“I release myself,” she cried, “from my oath of silence, though until to-day I have spoken only to those who helped me to come back to you—­my master.  Have you nothing to say to me?  Has the time seemed long?  Is it a weary while since I left you to do your will and murder the woman whom you were now about to make your wife?”

A cry of horror rose from the people, and then stillness came again.

“Take the woman away,” said Prince Tabnit only, “she is speaking madness.”

“I am speaking the truth,” said the woman clearly.  “I was of Melita—­there are those here who will know my face.  And it is not I alone who have served the State.  I challenge you, Tabnit—­here, before them all!  Where are Gerya and Ibera, Cabulla and Taura?  Have not their people, weeping, besought news of them in vain?  And what answer have you given them?”

Murmurs and sobs rose from the assembly, stilled by the tranquil voice of the prince.

“Where are they?” he repeated gently, his voice vibrant in its rise and fall, its giving of delicate values.  “But the people know where they are.  They have attained to the perfect life and died the perfect death.  For I have raised them to the supreme estate.”