Madame watched in vain for an opportunity of denouncing him as a lunatic. There was none afforded. His conversation upon all subjects—property, agriculture, manufactures, commerce, politics—with the various persons with whom he happened to fall in company, was so strong, so clear, so pointed and conclusive,—evincing an intellect so profound, powerful, and almost prophetic, that to have hinted at the possibility of his being a lunatic, would have been to expose herself to the certainty of being pronounced a maniac or an impostor. In a word, Madame felt herself constrained to defer her purpose to some more favorable opportunity. Monsieur Henri concluded his business, and they turned their horses’ heads shoreward. It was near sunset when they reached the headland and Barbara Brande’s old ruined house. Barbara had tea ready for them. The table was set out under a great elm tree, and covered with imported, if not smuggled luxuries, such as guava jellies, anchovy paste, potted meats, etc., which Barbara exultingly declared had never been spiced with duty. After tea they took leave of their bright, young hostess, and returned on board their barque. They sailed homeward by moonlight and arrived at early bed time. After this, Madame made many similar attempts to convict her benefactor of mania; but always without success; for though as long as Monsieur Henri De L’Ile confined himself to the island, he was for six days of the week a king, and on the seventh a pope, yet just so soon as he left its shores, or received any one from the outside world upon its soil, he became a plain, cheerful, clear-headed country gentleman, whom it would have been madness to charge with lunacy. But whether on the isle or off it, whether king or countryman, Monsieur Henri ever remained the same great, generous, warm-hearted host, friend and master, dispensing happiness to all who lived on his lovely isle, beneath his benignant rule. CHAPTER XIII. THE ISLAND PRINCESS. “Within the island’s calm retreat She lived a sort of fairy life.”—_Milnes._ “She was a form of life and light That seen, became a part of sight And rose where’er I turned my eye The Morning Star of memory.”—_Byron._