THE END OF THE EVENING The Hall of Kings was very still as Olivia rose.

She stood with one hand touching her veil's hem, the other resting on the low, carved arm of the throne, and at the coming and going of her breath her jewels made the light lambent with the indeterminate colours of those strange, joyous banners floating far above her head.
Her voice was very sweet and a little tremulous--and it is the very grace of a woman's courage that her voice tremble never so slightly.
It seemed to St.George that he loved her a thousand times the more for that mere persuasive wavering of her words.

And, while he listened to what he felt to be the prelude of her message, it seemed to him that he loved her another thousand times the more--what heavenly ease there is in this arithmetic of love--for the tender meaning which, upon her lips, her father's name took on.

When, speaking with simplicity and directness of the subject that lay uppermost in the minds of them all, she asked their utmost endeavour in their common grief, it was clear that what she said transcended whatever phenomena of mere experience lay between her and those who heard her, and they understood.

The _rapport_ was like that among those who hear one music.