In a short while they emerged through a tiny door out on to the beach. They gathered sticks and laid them crosswise upon each other until they were man high, and then set the pile ablaze. At length came a sign from the distant shore where white minarets gleamed in the light, and golden cupolas rose high in the air. There rose against the whiteness of the scene tall tongues of flame and curling smoke. “Their answer,” said Chlorie. “Some one will soon come now.” They watched a craft put out to sea—they saw the pale green sails grow clearer and nearer. Soon they could distinguish the crew. Chlorie ran down to the sea’s edge, and stood gaily clapping her hands. The little launch beached with a groan and a rattle and a Waz stepped out. “We saw your signal,” he began, then a look of recognition came over his face and he fell on one knee and clasped the Princess’ hand and impressed a loyal kiss upon it. “Oh my Ipso-Rorka,” he cried. “We have mourned you as serquor. No tidings could we get of you. Mournings and tears have been in Hoormoori for ten and one Kymos. The Rorka has shut himself within the precincts of his palace, and neither eats nor drinks; but sits always alone—silent, and quiet, and drear.” “Thank you for your welcome, my Waz. I have had strange adventures since I left my father’s house. These I will tell my people when the right moment arrives. But first lead me to my father.” The journey to the mainland occupied a very short space of time, and Waz Okoyar obtained a bhor for the Ipso-Rorka. “I shall not forget you, Waz Okoyar,” said Chlorie. “Reward shall be given you for your speedy assistance to me.” “Nay, my Princess, it is a joy to have served you.” Hoormoori proved to be even more beautiful than Minniviar—the streets were wider and the buildings more magnificent. The bhor stopped outside a marble building. “I told him to stop here,” whispered Chlorie. “It is better that I break the news to my father myself, of my safe return.” They passed through a noble courtyard into a lovely garden. “Our own private apartments. I shall be able to get to my father unnoticed.” Through a little door, up a short flight of stairs, and down a narrow corridor. A heavy curtain of blue hung outside a doorway. Chlorie lifted it gently. Alan drew back. Much as he loved her, he could not intrude at such a sacred moment. “Father!” “My child! My child!” There was the sound of kissing—a whispered conversation, and then Alan heard his name. Slowly he entered the room, and at last was face to face with the Rorka—King of all Jupiter, but above all, father of his loved one. The majesty of the Rorka overwhelmed him, and he bent his knee in homage. “Nay, rise,” said a gentle voice, musical, benign, soothing. “Rise and greet me, oh my Alan, for Chlorie has told me you are to be my son.” CHAPTER XII THE FATE OF KULMERVAN