"But, my darling," I urged, "duty calls, and Chuddah would not have her Orlando flinch."
The beautiful girl admitted the force of this appeal and a renewed scene of affectionate leave-taking took place. Suddenly the Ayah, who up to this moment had been dozing in her arm-chair, rose, and holding up a warning hand said, "Hist!"
We did so, alarmed by the impressive air of the good old nurse.
"Hist! What is that sound?"
I listened intently, and sure enough heard a faint tapping, proceeding apparently from the floor under my feet.
"I suspect treachery," continued the Ayah hurriedly. "'Twas only yester morn I saw Youbyoub scowling at us as we passed by on our early walk. Oh, beware, my lord, of Youbyoub."
This Youbyoub, I ought to say, was the young and bloodthirsty Prince of the Lozen Jehs, a tribe of wild warriors from the north. Betrothed to the beautiful Chuddah at an early age, he naturally viewed with hatred the advent of one on whom nature had bestowed her favours so bountifully, and who was bound, therefore, to make himself dear to Chuddah. I knew he detested me, but I had hitherto scorned him. I was now to discover my mistake.
Scarcely had the words left the Ayah's lips when a loud rumbling made itself heard: the floor seemed to heave in one terrific crash, there was a horrible explosion, and before I had time to realise what had happened we three, Chuddah, the Ayah and I, were being propelled upwards into space at the rate of at least a thousand miles an hour.
(To be continued.)