If the island was so historic, little Olivia may have said, where was the interfering goddess?
She looked unseeingly toward St.George and toward her father, and the sense of the bitter actuality of the choice suddenly wounded her, as the Actual for ever wounds the woman and the dream.
Then suddenly, above the stir of expectation of the people, and the associate bustling of the High Council there came a vague confusion and trampling from outside, and the far outer doors of the hall were thrown open with a jar and a breath, vibrant as a murmur.

There was a cry, the determined resistance of some of the Golden Guard, and shouts of expostulation and warning as they were flung aside by a powerful arm.

In the disorder that followed, a miraculously-familiar figure--that familiarity and strangeness are both miracles ought to explain certain mysteries--was beside St.George and a thankful voice said in his ear: "Mr.St.George, sir, for the mercy of Heaven, sir--come back to the yacht.

No person can tell what may happen ten minutes ahead, sir!" The oracle of this universal truth was Rollo, palpitating, his immaculate coat stained with earth, earth-stains on his cheeks, and his breast labouring in an excitement which only anxiety for his master could effect.

But St.George hardly saw him.