The very dark seemed delicately vocal and to
"fill the waste with sound" no less than the wash of the waves. St.
George awoke deliciously confused by a returning sense of the sweet
and the joy of the night.
"'This was the loneliest beach between two seas,'" there flitted
through his mind, "'and strange things had been done there in the
ancient ages.'" He turned among the vines, half listening. "And in
there is the king's daughter," he told himself, "and this is
certainly 'the strangest thing that ever befell between two seas.'
And I have a great mind to look up the old woman of that tale who
must certainly be hereabout, dancing 'widdershins.'"
Then, like a bright blade unsheathed in a quiet chamber, a cry of
great and unmistakable fear rang out from the palace--a woman's
cry, uttered but once, and giving place to a silence that was even
more terrifying. In an instant St. George was on his feet, running
with all his might.
"Coming!" he called, "where are you--where are you?" And his heart
pounded against his side with the certainty that the voice had been
Olivia's.
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