When they had been traveling for some hours and the children were beginning to think that you could perhaps have too much even of such an excellent thing as Sea Horse exercise, the phosphorescent lights suddenly stopped, and yet the sea was not dark. There seemed to be a light ahead, and it got stronger and stronger as they advanced, and presently it streamed down on them from shallow water above their heads. “We leave the Sea Horses here,” said Ulfin, “they cannot live in the air. Come.” They dismounted and swam up. At least Ulfin and the Princess swam and the others held hands and were pulled by the two swimmers. Almost at once their heads struck the surface of the water, and there they were, on the verge of a rocky shore. They landed, and walked—if you can call what seals do walking—across a ridge of land, then plunged into a landlocked lake that lay beyond. [Illustration: _The chargers of the Horse Marines._] “This is the Iswater,” said Ulfin as they touched bottom, “and yonder is the King.” And indeed a stately figure in long robes was coming toward them. “But this,” said the Princess, trembling, “is just like our garden at home, only smaller.” “It was made as it is,” said Ulfin, “by wish of the captive King. Majesty is Majesty, be it never so conquered.” The advancing figure was now quite near them. It saluted them with royal courtesy. “We wanted to know,” said Mavis, “please, your Majesty, if we might have lessons from you.” The King answered, but the Princess did not hear. She was speaking with Ulfin, apart. “Ulfin,” she said, “this captive King is my Father.” “Yes, Princess,” said Ulfin. “And he does not know me—” “He will,” said Ulfin strongly. “Did you know?” “Yes.” “But the people of your land will punish you for bringing us here, if they find out that he is my Father and that you have brought us together. They will kill you. Why did you do it, Ulfin?” “Because you wished it, Princess,” he said, “and because I would rather die for you than live without you.” CHAPTER ELEVEN _The Peacemaker_ THE CHILDREN thought they had never seen a kinder face or more noble bearing than that of the Professor of Conchology, but the Mer Princess could not bear to look at him. She now felt what Mavis had felt when Cathay failed to recognize her—the misery of being looked at without recognition by the eyes that we know and love. She turned away, and pretended to be looking at the leaves of the seaweed hedge while Mavis and Francis were arranging to take lessons in Conchology three days a week, from two to four. “You had better join a class,” said the Professor, “you will learn less that way.” “But we want to learn,” said Mavis. And the Professor looked at her very searchingly and said, “Do you?” “Yes,” she said, “at least—”