“I know not all his treachery, my Chlorie, but—”
“Why bring sorrow on Waiko’s family, and upon you, his friend?”
“I do not understand, but his intentions are evil throughout. I heard him tell his kinsman Desmond, that even the person of Chlorie herself was not sacred to him, provided he worked his will.”
“That is enough, Kulmervan,” she interrupted haughtily. “I will keep my cabin as you advise. Had I known in time, I should not have travelled home in his company. The Rorka, my father, will deal with this stranger, and the Hall of Sorrows will hold him safely, until he has been purged clean. Now good night.”
“Chlorie,” said Kulmervan passionately. “I dare say much to you to-night. Will you not offer me the flower of love? I dare not ask you to wed me—you are Ipso-Rorka—’tis for you to choose. But know I love you, love you with all my soul. Will you not honour me by choosing me for your mate?”
“Kulmervan,” said the Princess gently. “Why make me sad by all this useless talk? It can never be. I can place my hand in only one man’s—him I love. Him, alas, I have not yet met, but I do not love you, my Kulmervan. I never shall. Think, we played together in Hoormoori as babes, built palaces of sand by the sea, picked flowers and fondled our pets. We grew as brother and sister until you went to study with the Djoh, and I had to learn the lesson of royalty. No, my kinsman. I love you ’tis true, but not as a maid should love the man she mates, not as wife for husband, lover for lover. Let this be the last time you speak of such things, my Kulmervan. I will forget, and—”
“But I want you—you—you—,” and Kulmervan strode close to her and placed his arms about her.
“Let me go,” breathed the girl—but his lips were seeking hers.
“No—no—no,” she cried. “Not my lips—Kulmervan be merciful. My lips are sacred until I wed—spare my lips.” But Kulmervan’s reason had gone. “My beautiful one,” he murmured, and ran his fingers through her glorious mantle of hair. He held her head between his hands, and drank in the glory of her face. Her eyes were open wide in terror, her lips tightly compressed, her power of movement gone. Nearer, nearer he drew. His breath came in hot gusts upon her cheek. Her eyelids quivered under his scorching kisses. Her cheeks reddened as his lips touched them. With one mighty effort she tried to release herself.
“In the name of Mitzor the Great, leave my lips,” she cried, but the madness of passion was upon him. He revelled in his power, laughed at her struggles, mocked at her impotence. Roughly he clasped her still closer to him, but the Princess was inert in his arms—the strain was too much for her, and blissful unconsciousness had come to soothe her. There was the slightest of sounds. Alan, the athletic still, vaulted over the rail, and swinging Kulmervan by the scruff of his neck threw him on to the ground. Tenderly he lifted the Princess in his arms—she was as light as a feather—and went into her cabin.