We did not fight. My friend the captain proposed to rely on his British confrère’s sense of justice and of the courtesy which should obtain between two great and friendly nations. To this end he accompanied us on board the ship and laid his case before Captain Beverley, R.N. My argument, which I stated with brevity, but not without vehemence, was threefold: first, that Phroso had committed no offence; secondly, that if she had, it was a political offence; thirdly, was Captain Beverley going to hand over to a crew of dirty Turks the prettiest girl in the Mediterranean? This last point made a decided impression on the officers who were assisting their commander’s deliberations, but it won from him no more than a tolerant smile and a glance through his pince-nez at Phroso, who sat at the table opposite to him, awaiting the award of justice. After I had, in the heat of discussion, called the Turks ‘dirty,’ I moved round to my friend the captain, apologised humbly, and congratulated him on his gallant and spirited behaviour. He received my advances with courtesy, but firmly restated his claim to Phroso. Captain Beverley appeared a little puzzled.

‘And, to add to it all,’ he observed to me, ‘I thought you were dead;’ for I had told him my name.

‘Not at all,’ said I, resentfully; ‘I am quite alive, and I’m going to marry this lady.’

‘You intend to marry her, Lord Wheatley?’

‘She has done me the honour to consent and I certainly intend it; unless you’re going to send her off to Constantinople – or heaven knows where.’

Beverley arched his brows, but it was not his business to express an opinion, and I heartily forgave him his hinted disapproval, when he said to the captain:

‘I really don’t see how I can do what you ask. If you had won the tr – I mean, if you had succeeded in taking the lady on board, I should have had no more to say. As it is, I don’t think I can do anything but carry her to a British port. You can prefer your claim to extradition before the Court there, if you’re so advised.’

‘Bravo!’ cried Denny.

‘Be good enough to hold your tongue, sir,’ said Captain Beverley.

‘At least, you will take a note of my demand,’ urged the Turk.

‘With the utmost pleasure,’ responded Captain Beverley, and then and there he took a note. People seem often to find some mystical comfort in having a note taken, though no other consequence appears likely to ensue. Then the captain, being comforted by his note, took his farewell. I walked with him to the side of the vessel.

‘I hope you bear no malice,’ said I, as I held out my hand, ‘and that this affair won’t get you into any trouble.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said he. ‘Your ingenuity will be my excuse.’

‘You’re very good. I hope you’ll come and see us in Neopalia some day.’

‘You expect to return to Neopalia?’

‘Certainly. It’s mine – or Phroso’s – I don’t know which.’

‘There’s such a thing as forfeiture in our law,’ he observed, and with this Parthian shot he walked down and got into his boat. But I was not much frightened.

So, the Turk being thus disposed of, Denny and Hogvardt went back to the yacht, while Phroso, Watkins and I, took up our abode on the ship, and when Captain Beverley had heard the whole story of our adventures in Neopalia he was so overcome by Phroso’s gallant conduct that he walked up and down his own deck with her all the evening, while I, making friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, pretended to look very pleased and recited my dealings with Mouraki to an attentive group of officers. And clothes were produced from somewhere for Phroso – our navy is ready for everything – and thus, in the fulness of time, we came to Malta. Here the captain had a wife, and she was as delighted as, I take leave to say, all good women ought to be at the happy ending of our story. And at Malta we waited; but nothing happened. No claim was made for Phroso’s extradition; and I may as well state here that no claim ever has been made. But when we came to London, on board a P. and O. steamer, in charge of a benevolent but strict chaperon, I lost no time in calling on the Turkish Ambassador. I desired to put matters on a satisfactory footing at once. He received me with much courtesy, but expressed the opinion that Phroso and I alike had forfeited any claim which she or I, or either, or both of us, might have possessed to the Island of Neopalia. I was very much annoyed at this attitude; I rose and stood with my back to the fire.

‘It is the death of Mouraki Pasha that has so incensed your Government?’ I ventured to ask.

‘He was a very distinguished man,’ observed the Ambassador.

‘Practically banished to a very undistinguished office – for his position,’ I remarked.

‘One would not call it banishment,’ murmured his Excellency.

‘One would,’ I acquiesced, smiling, ‘of course, be particularly careful not to call it banishment.’

Something like a smile greeted this speech, but the Ambassador shrugged his shoulders.

‘Consider,’ said he, ‘the scenes of disorder and bloodshed!’

‘When I consider,’ I rejoined, ‘the scenes of disorder and bloodshed which passed before my eyes, when I consider the anarchy, the murder, the terrible dangers to which I, who went to Neopalia under the sanction and protection of your flag, was exposed, I perceive that the whole affair is nothing less than a European scandal.’

The Ambassador shifted in his armchair.

‘I shall, of course,’ said I, ‘prefer a claim to compensation.’

‘To compensation?’

‘Certainly. My island has been taken from me, and I have lost my money. Moreover your Governor tried to kill me.’

‘So did your wife,’ remarked the Pasha. ‘At least the lady who, as I understand, is to be your wife.’

‘I can forgive my wife. I do not propose to forgive your Government.’

The Ambassador stroked his beard.

‘If official representations were made through the proper quarters – ’ he began.

‘Oh, come,’ I interrupted, ‘I want to spend my honeymoon there; and I’m going to be married in a fortnight.’

‘The young lady is the difficulty. The manner in which you left Neopalia – ’

‘Is not generally known,’ said I.

The Ambassador looked up.

‘The tribute,’ I observed, ‘is due a month hence. I don’t know who’ll pay it you.’

‘It is but a trifling sum,’ said he contemptuously.

‘It is, indeed, small for such a delightful island.’

The Ambassador eyed me questioningly. I advanced towards him.

‘Considering,’ said I, ‘that I have only paid half the purchase-money, and that the other half is due to nobody – or to my own wife – I should not resent a proposal to double the tribute.’

The Ambassador reflected.

‘I will forward your proposal to the proper quarter,’ he said at last.

I smiled, and I asked:

‘Will that take more than a fortnight?’

‘I venture to hope not.’

‘And, of course, pardon and all that sort of thing will be included?’

‘I will appeal to his Majesty’s clemency,’ promised the Pasha.

I had no objection to his calling it by that name, and I took my leave, very much pleased with the result of the interview. But, as luck would have it, while I was pursuing my way across Hyde Park – for Phroso was staying with a friend of Mrs Beverley’s in Kensington – I ran plump into the arms of Mrs Kennett Hipgrave.

She stopped me with decision. I confess that I tried to pass by her.

‘My dear Lord Wheatley,’ she cried, with unbounded cordiality, ‘how charming to meet you again! Your reported death really caused quite a gloom.’

‘You’re too good!’ I murmured. ‘Ah – er – I hope Miss Beatrice is well?’

Mrs Kennett Hipgrave’s face grew grave and sympathetic.

‘My poor child!’ she sighed. ‘She was terribly upset by the news, Lord Wheatley. Of course, it seemed to her peculiarly sad; for you had received my letter only a week before.’

‘That must have seemed to aggravate the pathos very much,’ I agreed.

‘Not that, of course, it altered the real wisdom of the step I advised her to take.’

‘Not in the least, really, of course,’ said I.

‘I do hope you agree with me now, Lord Wheatley?’

‘Yes, I think I have come to see that you were right, Mrs Hipgrave.’

‘Oh, that makes me so happy! And it will make my poor dear child so happy, too. I assure you she has fretted very much over it.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said I politely. ‘Is she in town?’

‘Why, no, not just now.’

‘Where is she? I should like to write her a line.’

‘Oh, she’s staying with friends.’

‘Could you oblige me with the address?’

‘Well, the fact is, Lord Wheatley, Beatrice is staying with – with a Mrs Hamlyn.’

‘Oh, a Mrs Hamlyn! Any relation, Mrs Hipgrave?’

‘Well, yes. In fact, an aunt of our common friend.’

‘Ah, an aunt of our common friend,’ and I smiled. Mrs Hipgrave struggled nobly, but in the end she smiled also. After a little pause I remarked:

‘I’m going to be married myself, Mrs Hipgrave.’

Mrs Hipgrave grew rather grave again, and she observed:

‘I did hear something about a – a lady, Lord Wheatley.’

‘If you had heard it all, you’d have heard a great deal about her.’

A certain appearance of embarrassment spread over Mrs Hipgrave’s face.

‘We’re old friends, Lord Wheatley,’ she said at last. I bowed in grateful recognition. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind if I speak plainly to you. Now is she the sort of person whom you would be really wise to marry? Remember, your wife will be Lady Wheatley.’

‘I had not forgotten that that would happen,’ I said.

‘I’m told,’ pursued Mrs Hipgrave in a somewhat scornful tone, ‘that she is very pretty.’

‘But, then, that’s not really of importance, is it?’ I murmured.

Mrs Hipgrave looked at me with just a touch of suspicion; but she went on bravely:

‘And one or two very curious things have been said.’

‘Not to me,’ I observed with infinite amiability.

‘Her family now – ’

‘Her family was certainly a drawback; but there are no more of them, Mrs Hipgrave.’

‘Then somebody told me that she was in the habit of wearing – ’

‘Dear me, Mrs Hipgrave, in these days everybody does that – more or less, you know.’

Mrs Hipgrave sighed pathetically, and added, with a slight shudder:

‘They say she carried a dagger.’

‘They’ll say anything,’ I reminded her.

‘At any rate,’ said Mrs Hipgrave, ‘she will be quite unused to the ways of society.’

‘Oh, we shall teach her, we shall teach her,’ said I cheerfully. ‘After all, it’s only a difference of method. When people in Neopalia are annoyed, they put a knife into you – ’

‘Good gracious, Lord Wheatley!’

‘Here,’ I pursued, ‘they congratulate you; but it’s the same principle. Won’t you wish me joy, Mrs Hipgrave?’

‘If you’re really bent upon it, I suppose I must.’

‘And you’ll tell the dear children?’ I asked anxiously.

‘The dear children?’ she echoed; she certainly suspected me by now.

‘Why, yes. Your daughter and Bennett Hamlyn, you know.’

Mrs Hipgrave surveyed me from top to toe. Her aspect was very severe; then she delivered herself of the following remark:

‘I can never be sufficiently thankful,’ she said, with eyes upturned towards the sky, ‘that my poor dear girl found out her mistake in time.’

‘I have the utmost regard for Miss Beatrice,‘ I rejoined, ‘but I will not differ from you, Mrs Hipgrave.’

I must shift the scene again back to the island that I loved. For his Majesty’s clemency justified the Ambassador’s belief in it, and Neopalia was restored to Phroso and to me. Thither we went in the spring of the next year, leaving Denny inconsolable behind, but accompanied by old Hogvardt and by Watkins. This time we went straight out by sea from England, and the new crew of my yacht was more trustworthy than when Spiro and Demetri (ah, I had nearly written ‘poor Demetri,’ when the fellow was a murderer!) were sent by the cunning of Constantine Stefanopoulos to compose it. We landed this time to meet no threatening looks. The death-chant that One-eyed Alexander wrote was not raised when we entered the old grey house on the hill, looking over the blue waters. Ulysses is fabled by the poet to have – well, to put it plainly – to have grown bored with peaceful Ithaca. I do not know whether I shall prove an Ulysses in that and live to regret the new-born tranquillity of Neopalia. In candour, the early stormy days have a great attraction, and I love to look back to them in memory. So strong was this feeling upon me that it led me to refuse a request of my wife’s – the only one of hers which I have yet met in that fashion; for when we had been two or three days in the island – I spent one, by the way, in visiting the graves of my dead friends and enemies, a most suggestive and soothing occupation – I saw, as I walked with her through the hall of our house, mason’s tools and mortar lying near where the staircase led up, hard by the secret door; and Phroso said to me:

‘I’m sure you’d like to have that horrible secret passage blocked up, Charley. It’s full of terrible memories.’

‘My dear Phroso, wall up the passage?’

‘We shan’t want it now,’ said she, with a laugh – and something else.

‘It’s true,’ I admitted, ‘that I intend, as far as possible, to rule by constitutional means in Neopalia. Still one never knows. My dearest, have you no romance?’

‘No,’ said Phroso shamelessly. ‘I’ve had enough romance. I want to live quietly; and I don’t want to push anyone over into that awful pool where poor Kortes fell.’

I stood looking at the boards under the staircase. Presently I knelt down and touched the spring. The boards rolled away, the passage gaped before us, and I put my arm round Phroso as I said:

‘Now heaven forbid that I should lay a modern sacrilegious hand on the secret of the Stefanopouloi! For the world makes many circles, Phroso – forward sometimes, sometimes back – and it is something to know that here, in Neopalia, we are ready, and that if any man attacks our sovereignty, why, let him look out for the secret of the Stefanopouloi! In certain moods, Phroso, I should be capable of coming back from the chasm – alone!’

So Phroso, on my entreaty, spared the passage; and even now, when the shades of middle age (a plague on ’em) are deepening, and the wild doings of the purchaser of Neopalia grow golden in distant memory, I like to walk to the end of the chasm and recall all that it has seen: the contests, the dark tricks, the sudden deaths, aye, to travel back from the fearful struggle of Kortes and Constantine on the flying bridge to that long-ago time when the Baron d’Ezonville was so lucky as to be set adrift in his shirt, while Stefan Stefanopoulos’s headless trunk was dashed into the dim water and One-eyed Alexander the Bard wrote the Chant of Death. Ah me, that was two hundred years ago!