. . .ALL TEN AND ONE CENTURIES OF TROOPS ranked up modestly as Marsil walked up the hill. Consequent of his arrival, the soldiers had, to each their own, gathered themselves in a gallant order upon the slopes of the mount. Just a few yards right of the small plateau were the gates of the Golden Capital, forever bright in its glow at the azure sky.
Even Latchlon straightened astride his stallion as the Prince approached. Marsil had left board of the carriage only moments ago, and Beltane stood at the foot of the hill with Hemlock and Katrina. The hardy coachman was ready to ride forth the little distance left to the capital. But of course he would wait a while until the Princess got back down.
