IN THE HALL OF KINGS Somewhat before noon the great doors of the Palace of the Litany and of the Hall of Kings were thrown open, and the people streamed in from the palace grounds and the Eurychorus.

Abroad among them--elusive as that by which we know that a given moment belongs to dawn, not dusk--was the sense of questioning, of unrest, of expectancy that belongs to the dawn itself.

Especially the youths and maidens--who, besides wisdom, knew something of spells--waited with a certain wistfulness for what might be, for Change is a kind of god even to the immortals.

But there were also those who weighed the departures incident to the coming of the strange people from over-seas; and there were not lacking conservatives of the old regime to shake wise heads and declare that a barbarian is a barbarian, the world over.
All that rainbow multitude, clad for festival, rose with the first light music that stole, winged and silken, from hidden cedar alcoves, and some minutes past the sounding of the hour of noon the chamfered doors set high in the south wall of the Hall of Kings were swung open, and at the head of the stair appeared Olivia.
She was alone, for the custom of Yaque required that the island princesses should on the day of their recognition first appear alone before their people in token of their mutual faith.

From the wardrobes at the castle Olivia had chosen the coronation gown of Queen Mitygen herself.