"Tell me," he said impulsively, "what made you let him stay last night, there in the banquet hall?"
She flushed, and shook her head with a deprecatory gesture.
"I haven't an idea," she said gravely, "I think I must have done it so the fairies wouldn't prick their feet on any new sorrow. One has to be careful of the fairies' feet."
St. George nodded. It was a charming reason for the left hand to give the right, and he was not deceived.
"Look at him," said St. George, almost reverently, "he looks like a shade of a god that has come back from the other world and found his shrine dishonoured."
Some echo of St. George's words reached the old man and he caught at it, smiling. It was as if he had just been thinking what he spoke.
"There are not enough shrines," he said gently, "but there are far too many gods. You will find it so."
Something in his words stirred St. George strangely. There was about the old creature an air of such gentleness, such supreme repose and detachment that, even in that place of quiet, his presence made a kind of hush. He was old and pallid and fragile, but there lingered within him, while his spirit lingered, the perfume of all fine and gentle things, all things of quietude. When he had spoken the old man turned and moved slowly down the ways of strange light, between the fallen temples builded to forgotten gods, and he seemed like the very spirit of the ancient mountain, ignorant of itself and knowing all truth.
"How strange," said St. George, looking after him, "how unutterably strange and sad."
"That is good of you," said Olivia. "Aunt Dora and Antoinette thought I'd gone quite off my head, and Mr. Frothingham wanted to know why I didn't bring back some one who could have been called as a witness."
"Witness," St. George echoed; "but the whole place is made of witnesses. Which reminds me: what is the sentence?"
"The sentence?" she wondered.
"The potatoes of Yaque," he reminded her, "and my head?"
"Ah well," said Olivia gravely, "inasmuch as the moon came up in the east to-night instead of the west, I shall be generous and give you one day's reprieve."
"Do you know, I thought the moon came up in the east to-night," cried St. George joyfully.
* * * * * It was half an hour afterward that Amory's languid voice from somewhere in the sky broke in upon their talk. As he came toward them across the terrace St. George saw that he was miraculously not alone.
Afterward Amory told him what had happened and what had made him abide in patience and such wondrous self-effacement.