"
She said "us all," but that had to mean merely "us," as well. St.
George turned and looked over the terrace. What an Arabian night it
was, he was saying to himself, and then stood in a sudden amazement,
with the uncertain idea that one of the Schererazade magicians had
answered that fancy of his by appearing.
A little shrine hung thick with vines, its ancient stone chipped and
defaced, stood on the terrace with its empty, sightless niche turned
toward the sea. Leaning upon its base was an old man watching them.
His eyes under their lowered brows were peculiarly intent, but his
look was perfectly serene and friendly. His stuff robe hung in
straight folds about his singularly erect figure, and his beard and
hair were not all grey. But he was very old, with incredibly brown
and wrinkled flesh, and his face was vacant, as if the mind were
asleep.
As he looked, St. George knew him. Here on the top of this mountain
was that amazing old man whom he had last seen in the banquet hall
at the Palace of the Litany--that old Malakh for whom Olivia had so
unexplainably interceded.
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