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. His eyes were
fixed on some one who stood towering before the dais, like the old
prints of the avenging goddesses. Clad in the hideous stripes which
boards of directors consider _de rigueur_ for the soul that is to be
won back to the normal, stood the woman Elissa, who, by all counts
of Prince Tabnit, should have been singing a hymn with Mrs.
Pages:
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435