The Kings of the East: A Romance of the Near FutureGrier, Sydney C.
Science
The Kings of the East: A Romance of the Near Future
Grier, Sydney C.
Palestine -- Fiction; Political fiction; Speculative fiction; Zionism -- Fiction
In an incredibly short space of time the service which seemed so brief
and meant so much was over, and Cyril and his wife were receiving the
congratulations of the rest. There was small scope for oratory in the
farewells. Mansfield’s sore heart was a little comforted by the grip
of Cyril’s hand as he passed him in the doorway, even though the
accompanying words were merely, “Don’t be a silly fool!” Another horse
had been brought round for the Queen’s use, and the riding-party made
a fresh start; but this time it included Cyril. Paschics and Dietrich
were to join their master outside the city, convoying Fräulein von
Staubach, who insisted upon her right to attend the Queen now that her
turn had come round. The men took off their hats as the party rode
away, but turned immediately to rebuke the ladies for shedding tears.
Such a display of pocket-handkerchiefs was calculated to attract
undesirable attention, they said, and Baroness von Hilfenstein and
Madame Stefanovics retreated into the inmost recesses of the house, to
guard against endangering the Queen’s safety by their uncontrollable
emotion. But the fugitives rode safely through the city and out at the
gate, meeting the sheikh as had been arranged, without being
challenged by a single official.
That evening the yacht White Lady, lying in Beyrout roadstead,
suddenly hoisted English colours and the Thracian royal standard, and
put to sea, in company with the Thracian gunboat St Gabriel. It was
remarked as peculiar by curious observers on shore that the Hercynian
war-ship which had arrived that morning immediately slipped her cable
and followed them.
CHAPTER XXIV.
“THE BITTER CLOSE OF ALL.”
“Phil, I want a word or two with you.”
“I’m so glad, father. I’ve been longing for a talk. Let us come up to
the roof.”
They mounted to the marble terrace, shaded by orange-trees in pots,
and Lord Caerleon began to pull off withered leaves as busily as if he
had had no other intention in coming. Suddenly he turned to his
daughter, who sat watching him patiently, the usual sparkle of fun
missing from her blue eyes.
“Phil, the King wants your answer. You promised he should have it the
day after the wedding, and that is to-day.”
“I don’t think he ought to take a mean advantage of your having put
the wedding forward two days, do you, father? But perhaps it’s as well
to get it over.”
“I--I hope you’ve thought what you’re doing, Phil?”
“Well, it hasn’t needed very much thought. I have known all along what
I should say.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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