Amory looked up at the frowning façade of the king's palace, and he could have found it in his heart to believe his own answer.
"I'm the ghost," he confessed, "of a poor beggar of a Phœnician who used to make water-jars in Sidon. I have been condemned to plow the high seas and explore the tall mountains until I find the Pitiful Princess. She must be up at the very peak, in distress, and I—"
Amory stopped and looked desperately about him. Would St. George never come? How was he, Amory, to be accountable for what he told if he were left here alone in these extraordinary circumstances?
Then Antoinette lightly clapped her hands.
"A ghost!" she exclaimed with pleasure. "Miss Holland hoped the place was haunted. A Phœnician ghost with an Alabama accent."
She had said "Miss Holland hoped."
"Aren't you—aren't you Miss Holland?" demanded Amory promptly, a joyful note of uncertainty in his voice.
Antoinette shook her head.
"No," she said, "though I don't know why I should tell you that."
From Amory's soul rolled a burden that left him treading air on Mount Khalak. She was not Miss Holland. What did he care how long St. George stayed away?