Prince Tabnit had risen to receive Olivia, and St. George had to see him extend his hand and assist her beside him upon the dais.  In the absence of her father she was obliged to stand alone.  Then the little figure in rose and silver and one of the daughters of the peers advanced and lifted her veil, and St. George wanted to shout with sudden exultation.  This then was she—­so near, so near.  Surely no great harm could come to them so long as the sea and the mystery of the island no longer lay between them.  Did she know of his presence?  Although he and Amory were seated so near the throne, they were at one side, and her clear, pure profile was turned toward them.  And Olivia did not lift her eyes throughout the prime minister’s long address, of which St. George and Amory, so lapped were they in wild projects and importunities, heard nothing until, uttered with indescribable pompousness, as if Cassyrus were a dowager and had made the match himself, the concluding words beat upon St. George’s heart like stones.  They were the formal announcement of the betrothal of Olivia, daughter of his Majesty, Otho I of Yaque, to Tabnit, Prince of Yaque and Head of the House of the Litany.

St. George saw Prince Tabnit kneel before Olivia and place a ring upon her hand—­no doubt the ring which had betrothed the island princesses for three thousand years.  He saw the High Council standing with bowed heads, like the necessary archangels in an old painting; he caught the flash of the turquoise-blue ephod of the head of the religious order, as the benediction was pronounced by its wearer.  And through it all he said to himself that all would be well if only she understood, if only she had the supreme self-consciousness to play the game.  After all he knew her so little.  He was certain of her exquisite, playful fancy, but had she imagination?  Would she see the value of the moment and watch herself moving through it?  Or would she live it with that feminine, unhumourous seriousness which is woman’s weakness?  She had an exquisite independence, he was certain that she had humour, and he remembered how alive she had seemed to him, receptive, like a woman with ten senses.  But after all, would not her graceful sanity of view, that sense of tradition and unerring taste which he so reverenced, yet handicap her now and prevent her from daring whatever she must dare?

Amory was beside himself.  It was all very well to feel a great sympathy for St. George, but the sight was more than journalistic flesh and blood could look upon with sympathetic calm.

“An American girl!” he breathed in spite of himself.  “Why, St. George, if we can leave this island alive—­”

“Well, you won’t,” St. George explained, with brutal directness, “unless you can cut that.”

Before silence had again fallen, the prime minister, all his fever of importance still upon him, once more faced the audience.  This time his words came to St. George like a thunderbolt: