It was like a triumphant burst of music which yet ends on a high note, with imperfect close, hinting passionately at some triumph still loftier.
From either side of the wall of the palace yard came glittering a detachment of the Royal Golden Guard, clad in uniforms of unrelieved cloth-of-gold.

These halted, saluted, wheeled, and between their shining ranks St.George and Amory footed quietly on, followed by Rollo carrying the yellow oil-skins.

To St.George there was relief in the motion, relief in the vastness, and almost a boy's delight in the pastime of living the hour.
Yet Royal Golden Guard, majestic avenues, and towered palace with its strange banners floating in strange light, held for him but one reality.

And when they had mounted the steps of the mighty entrance, and the sound of unrecognized music reached him--a very myth of music, elusive, vagrant, fugued--and the palace doors swung open to receive them, he could have shouted aloud on the brilliant threshold: "He says she is here in Yaque.".