But by that time the arithmetic of his love was by
way of being in too many figures to talk about. Which is the proper
plight of love.
Every one had turned toward Prince Tabnit, and as St. George looked
it smote him whimsically that that impassive profile was like the
profiles upon the ancient coins which, almost any day, might be cast
up by a passing hoof on the island mold. Indeed, St. George thought,
one might almost have spent the prince's profile at a fig-stall,
and the vender would have jingled it among his silver and never have
detected the cheat. But in the next moment the joyous mounting of
his blood running riot in audacious whimsies was checked by the even
voice of the prince himself.
"The gratitude and love of this people," he said slowly, "are due to
the daughter of its sovereign for what she has proposed. It is,
however, to be remembered that by our ancient law the State and
every satrapy therein shall receive no service, whether of blood or
of bond, from an alien. The king himself could serve us only in that
he was king.
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