For St. George to have come with this story
of a potion--a drug that had restored youth to her father, had
transformed him from that mad old Malakh--
"Father!" she cried appealingly, "don't you remember--don't you
know?"
King Otho, watching the prince, shook his head, smiling.
"At dawn," he said, "there are few of us to be found remaining still
at table with Socrates. I seem not to have been of that number."
"Olivia!" cried St. George suddenly.
She met his eyes for a moment, the eyes that had read her own, that
had given message for message, that had seen with her the glory of a
mystic morning willingly relinquished for a diviner dawn. Was she
not princess here in Yaque? She laid her hand upon her father's
hand; the crown that they had given her glittered as she turned
toward the multitude.
"My people," she said ringingly, "I believe that that man speaks the
truth. Shall the prince not answer to this charge before the High
Council now--here--before you all?"
At this King Otho did something nearly perceptible with his
eyebrows.
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