Just after the sun had risen the ship touched the wharf at Daimur's native city, and Daimur, who was the first ashore, stood by to assist the ladies to land and to welcome them to his kingdom.
There was not a soul in sight as they formed a double line, with Prince Redmond's sailors as guards, and marched towards the palace, which was only a few blocks distant.
As they neared the gates they saw that nobody was astir but a few of the Royal bodyguard, who as soon as they caught sight of Prince Daimur at the head of this strange procession rushed towards him and threw themselves at his feet with exclamations of astonishment and joy that he was still alive.
They told Daimur that his wicked uncle had already been crowned king, having proved by the aid of false witnesses that Daimur had fallen from a precipice while out riding and been instantly killed, and that his body was washed away in the swift-flowing river at the bottom.
At the conclusion of the tale Daimur called out all the guards and ordered them to arrest his uncle and his followers immediately, and convey them to a strong prison in the interior of the kingdom.
Before they could move to obey him, however, Daimur's uncle himself appeared with a few of his friends. They had been aroused from their sleep by the sound of voices and had dressed hastily.
"What is the meaning of this commotion?" roared the false King, addressing the guards. "Back to your posts immediately."
He turned as he spoke and his eye fell on Daimur and his little company, whose guns were all pointed directly at him, as, strange to say, were those of the Palace guard. He glanced in every direction, but everywhere he saw hard unsympathetic faces, and the round muzzles of guns.
He grew pale and his knees knocked together as he looked about in vain for a means of escape. Then suddenly his face cleared, and he drew a whistle from a cord at his neck and blew three loud blasts upon it.
Daimur, who still wore his cap and spectacles, turned to his company.