Their course was set for the Island of Shells, where King Cyril’s brother was ruling in his stead.

The wind was good, and they expected to reach port sometime the next day. Morning dawned bright and sunny, and after some hours of fast sailing Daimur was surprised to have a message brought to him that the Captain had sighted something from the bridge that he wished King Daimur to see.

Daimur went up at once, accompanied by King Cyril, to whom he had been talking.

On reaching the Captain’s side they saw at once what the trouble was.

In front of them, about six miles distant, lay the Island of Shells, and between them and it the only entrance to the harbor, a narrow winding passage between very dangerous reefs, which in places stood high out of the water.

It was, however, not the reefs that drew their attention.

Directly in front of them, and completely surrounding the passage through the reefs, lay a dark streak upon the water. It seemed to be at least half a mile in width and stretched away on either side as far as one could see.

Although the water all around it was quite rough and choppy this streak lay perfectly calm, glistening in the sun with peculiar purple and gold colors.

The Captain had ordered some of the sails reefed, but even so the ship was going at a good rate of speed and in a few seconds they had run into it.

It was as though they had struck a bank of soft mud, and so indeed they thought it at first, though they could not understand how it could have got there, as the sea was known to be very deep outside the reefs.

The sails, well filled, tried to carry the ship forward, but only succeeded in getting them a little further into the dark mass.

“What can it be?” cried King Cyril, as everybody rushed to the ship’s sides to see what had stopped their progress.

“It looks and smells like tar,” said the Captain, “and now how in the world are we to get out of it? I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and I’ve been sailing for forty-seven years.”

By this time Daimur had adjusted his magic cap and spectacles and was surveying the dark sticky streak. He gave way to an exclamation of dismay.

“What is it?” gasped King Cyril, thoroughly alarmed at seeing Daimur so affected.

“This stuff is tar,” said Daimur, “mixed with various gums and a terrible acid that is eating into the hull of our ship and will destroy it within two hours if we cannot succeed in getting it out.

“This is the work of your sister-in-law,” he continued, addressing King Cyril, “assisted by the witch of Despair. They do not intend to let us in if they can help it. Now let us think what we must do.”

Not a word was spoken as Daimur stood consulting his magic cap and gazing out over the sea.

In a few moments he turned to the Captain.

“Have you any coal-oil?” he asked.

“A little, your majesty, about nine barrels, I think,” answered the Captain, as he sent a sailor to see how many there were. The man came back to say that there were ten.

“Good,” said Daimur. “Now have all the barrels brought up to the deck, for we must pour the oil over the bow; it is the only thing that will cut this vile mixture.”

The barrels were brought up as quickly as possible, and Daimur himself stood in the bow and directed the sailors. Four men held a barrel of oil on each side of the bow, and at the instant they commenced to pour it down the Captain ordered the remaining sails let out to the wind.

As the oil struck the tar mixture it first spread over the surface, and then foamed up like soda water, and as the foam subsided the water could be seen underneath.

With every sail filled the ship slowly made its way through the sticky foaming mass, and when at the end of half an hour they were clear of it, and the ship began to cut ahead through the water again, a big cheer of relief went up.

All was not over, however, as they were now within the narrow passage, and the Captain was very nervous. He had never been through it before without a pilot, and although he had the wheel himself he was not sure that he knew the course.

King Cyril now stepped forward and offered to take the wheel, as he had often steered his own yacht through the channel, and knew it perfectly, so in case some other trap had been laid for them Daimur gave him his magic cap and glasses to wear until they should be safely in the harbor.

In and out among the black reefs they wound, and shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon cast anchor in the harbor, and were soon ashore.

As the usurping Prince and his witch of a wife had felt very safe behind their ring of magic tar they had set no guards about, and consequently Daimur and his friends, with his marines as guards, were marching up the city street towards the palace before you could say “Jack Robinson,” with nobody to stop them.

There were a good many people out in the streets, as it was market day, and in a few moments a crowd had gathered to see the procession. Of course they at once recognized their rightful King and Queen, and with shouts of “Long live our noble King Cyril, he has been restored to us,” “Long live Queen Emily,” “Long live Princess Maya,” they joined in the procession which was winding along to the palace.

For you must know that the wicked Princess could not possibly throw rose-colored powder into the eyes of all King Cyril’s subjects, and did not care at all about them as long as she could reach everyone in authority; so that all the common people of his kingdom still loved their rightful king as much as ever, and hated his brother Arnolde and his wife, who they knew quite well cared nothing for them excepting when they wanted more taxes.

The visitors looked about them curiously as they advanced. None of them had ever visited the Island of Shells before and they greatly admired the beautiful houses which were built entirely of pink, white or blue shells, with pale pink or amber-colored shells for windows, and the shell fences to match which enclosed the grounds.

The streets were paved with huge clam shells, and the sidewalks were of periwinkle shells cemented together.

It was a beautiful city, they all agreed.

Soon as they turned a corner the high shell turrets of the Palace and Parliament buildings came in sight, glittering pink and silver in the sunshine.

Now Arnolde was just then holding Parliament, and hearing the shouting he rose to his feet and looked out of the window. When he saw the procession headed by his brother Cyril he started violently and his eyes almost popped out of his head.

Turning to the nobles assembled about he cried, “To arms. An enemy advances upon us.”

In a moment every man’s sword was drawn, and following Arnolde they all dashed out of the building into the street to oppose the progress of King Cyril.

On they rushed towards Daimur’s army, but were soon stopped and overpowered by the marines, who were in command of Prince Redmond.

Daimur, who in this perilous land was again wearing his cap and spectacles, approached the prisoners and examined the eyes of several of them.

Through his glasses he could see that the rose-colored powder had spread out and made a thin covering over each eye, and his magic cap told him that nothing could remove it but the tears of the victims themselves.

He told this to King Cyril.

“Can’t you think of anything that would induce them to weep?” asked Daimur.

“Indeed I cannot,” answered King Cyril, as he looked at their scowling, unfriendly faces.

Just then Prince Tasmir came forward.

“Why not make each man peel a peck of good strong onions?” he said with a smile.

At this they all laughed, but the idea seemed a good one, and quickly explaining what they wanted to his crowds of subjects King Cyril soon had people running from all directions with onions in pails, pans, bags and baskets, until the street looked like an onion market.

The prisoners in the meanwhile eyed the proceedings impatiently, talking among themselves, and were utterly disgusted and horrified when a knife and a great heap of onions were placed on the ground beside each of them.

Prince Redmond, at a sign from Daimur, stepped forward and ordered them to peel the onions. This of course they flatly refused to do, and it was only after threatening them with instant death that they sat down on the ground and unwillingly commenced.

Such a sniffing then began! Such tears poured forth! Not one of them was allowed to stop until he had finished his share, and by that time the tears were running in streams down their faces.

It was a very odd sight, and the people crowded around laughing quietly to themselves, and wondering what it was for.

“Rise,” commanded Prince Redmond, “and wipe your eyes.”

They all obeyed.

“Now,” said Daimur stepping forward. “Three cheers for your rightful ruler, King Cyril, who has, with the Queen and your Princess, been restored to you.”

For a moment there was a dead silence while Prince Arnolde and his followers gazed at King Cyril with eyes that were clear for the first time in four years. Then, raising their swords, they cheered lustily, while Prince Arnolde rushed forward and fell on his brother’s neck, begging forgiveness, and declaring that he must have been crazy to act so wickedly.

Together the whole procession wended its way to the palace gates, which King Cyril once more entered as the rightful ruler of his kingdom.

The false Queen was sitting on the lawn under the trees doing crochet work in a new shell pattern that she had just invented and talking with some of the Court ladies, and she did not notice the procession approaching until the tramp of many feet made her turn her head.

She arose and came forward in some alarm, but at the sight of King Cyril, Queen Emily and Princess Maya, with her husband walking beside them talking in the most unfriendly manner, she flew into a terrible rage.

She danced up and down and round and round, faster and faster, growing smaller every second, until at last she was nothing but her real self, an ugly shriveled witch running round and round on a broomstick. With a loud shrill scream she mounted into the air and was away out of sight in an instant, leaving everybody staring open mouthed at the sky.

“She has gone to the Island of Despair to join the old witch and her daughter,” said Daimur who had a creepy feeling down his back.

The people all shuddered and looked at one another in awe, and poor Prince Arnolde was trembling in every limb.

They were all very glad when King Cyril ordered refreshments served at once in the great dining hall.

Daimur remained for a week in the Island of Shells to see that all went well. He was afraid of the witches returning, as of course now they had so many of the Evil Magician’s secrets that they might cause a great deal of trouble.

Prince Tasmir was very glad to be a few days more in the company of Princess Maya, with whom he had fallen desperately in love, and took this opportunity of asking King Cyril’s consent to their marriage as soon as he had regained his kingdom, which King Cyril readily gave.

The witches did not return, and as the King, assisted by his now devoted brother, was rapidly getting everything into good order, Daimur announced his intention of leaving, and he, the Duchess of Rose Petals, and the two Princes departed from the Island of Shells after a great ceremony, at which Daimur was presented with a gold sword in token of the gratitude of King Cyril’s subjects for the restoration of their King.