“Yes. Straight through yonder archway a passage leads to the sea. We are not far from Hoormoori. The island is Waro—the Isle of Joy. It is a safe place for Kulmervan to have chosen for his madness—no one would have sought for evil here.”
“How far is Hoormoori then?”
“From where we emerge into the light, we shall see the citadels and towers of my home. Oh Alan—the joyous moment when I can take you by the hand and lead you to my father—my chosen one—my love.”
“How shall we reach the mainland?”
“We must light a beacon on the shore. Fire is a signal, and some one will row across to us.”
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.”