“Yes,” he said, “I quite understand. I am only an exiled Professor, teaching Conchology to youthful aliens, but I retain some remnants of the wisdom of my many years. I know that I am not what I seem, and that you are not what you seem, and that your desire to learn my special subject is not sincere and whole-hearted, but is merely, or mainly, the cloak to some other design. Is it not so, my child?” No one answered. His question was so plainly addressed to the Princess. And she must have felt the question, for she turned and said, “Yes, O most wise King.” “I am no King,” said the Professor, “rather I am a weak child picking up pebbles by the shore of an infinite sea of knowledge.” “You _are_,” the Princess was beginning impulsively, when Ulfin interrupted her. “Lady, lady!” he said, “all will be lost! Can you not play your part better than this? If you continue these indiscretions my head will undoubtedly pay the forfeit. Not that I should for a moment grudge that trifling service, but if my head is cut off you will be left without a friend in this strange country, and I shall die with the annoying consciousness that I shall no longer be able to serve you.” He whispered this into the Princess’s ear while the Professor of Conchology looked on with mild surprise. “Your attendant,” he observed, “is eloquent but inaudible.” “I mean to be,” said Ulfin, with a sudden change of manner. “Look here, sir, I don’t suppose you care what becomes of you.” “Not in the least,” said the Professor. “But I suppose you would be sorry if anything uncomfortable happened to your new pupils?” “Yes,” said the Professor, and his eye dwelt on Freia. “Then please concentrate your powerful mind on being a Professor. Think of nothing else. More depends on this than you can easily believe.” “Believing is easy,” said the Professor. “Tomorrow at two, I think you said?” and with a grave salutation he turned his back on the company and walked away through his garden. It was a thoughtful party that rode home on the borrowed chargers of the Deep Sea Cavalry. No one spoke. The minds of all were busy with the strange words of Ulfin, and even the least imaginative of them, which in this case was Bernard, could not but think that Ulfin had in that strange oddly shaped head of his, some plan for helping the prisoners, to one of whom at least he was so obviously attached. He also was silent, and the others could not help encouraging the hope that he was maturing plans. They reached the many-windowed prison, gave up their tickets-of-leaves and reentered it. It was not till they were in the saloon and the evening was all but over that Bernard spoke of what was in every head. “Look here,” he said, “I think Ulfin means to help us to escape.” “Do you,” said Mavis. “I think he means to help us to something, but I don’t somehow think it’s as simple as that.” “Nothing near,” said Francis simply. “But that’s all we want, isn’t it?” said Bernard.