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And so Helena the princess, Leaning against the soft cushions of her gilded barge, had sighed for the days of the old-time British valor and freedom, and, even as she looked off toward the approaching triareme, she was wondering how she could awake to thoughts of British glory her rather heavy-witted father, Coel the King an hereditary prince of that ancient Britain in which he was now, alas, but a tributary prince of the all too powerful Rome.
And feeling mildly wicked he continued: "Soft skies, a sea of Ionian azure; one might almost expect to see a triareme heading up yonder out of the south, festooned with the golden fleece. This is just the sort of a scene for a triareme; don't you think so?" Her reply was the slightest possible nod.
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