commanded Yolara — her eyes rested upon Larry. “Your heart is great, indeed — my lord!” she murmured; and her voice was very sweet. “Come!”
“This man comes with us, Yolara,” said O’Keefe pointing to Olaf.
“Bring him,” she said. “Bring him — only tell him to look no more upon me as before!” she added fiercely.
Beside her the three of us passed along the stalls, where sat the fair-haired, now silent, at gaze, as though in the grip of some great doubt. Silently Olaf strode beside me. Rador had disappeared. Down the stairway, through the hall of turquoise mist, over the rushing sea-stream we went and stood beside the wall through which we had entered. The white-robed ones had gone.
Yolara pressed; the portal opened. We stepped upon the car; she took the lever; we raced through the faintly luminous corridor to the house of the priestess.
And one thing now I knew sick at heart and soul the truth had come to me — no more need to search for Throckmartin. Behind that Veil, in the lair of the Dweller, dead-alive like those we had just seen swim in its shining train was he, and Edith, Stanton and Thora and Olaf Huldricksson’s wife!
The car came to rest; the portal opened; Yolara leaped out lightly, beckoned and flitted up the corridor. She paused before an ebon screen. At a touch it vanished, revealing an entrance to a small blue chamber, glowing as though cut from the heart of some gigantic sapphire; bare, save that in its centre, upon a low pedestal, stood a great globe fashioned from milky rock-crystal; upon its surface were faint tracings as of seas and continents, but, if so, either of some other world or of this world in immemorial past, for in no way did they resemble the mapped coastlines of our earth.
Poised upon the globe, rising from it out into space, locked in each other’s arms, lips to lips, were two figures, a woman and a man, so exquisite, so lifelike, that for the moment I failed to realize that they, too, were carved of the crystal. And before this shrine — for nothing else could it be, I knew — three slender cones raised themselves: one of purest white flame, one of opalescent water, and the third of — moonlight! There was no mistaking them, the height of a tall man each stood — but how water, flame and light were held so evenly, so steadily in their spire-shapes, I could not tell.
Yolara bowed lowly — once, twice, thrice. She turned to O’Keefe, nor by slightest look or gesture betrayed she knew others were there than he. The blue eyes wide, searching, unfathomable, she drew close; put white hands on his shoulders, looked down into his very soul.
“My lord,” she murmured. “Now listen well for I, Yolara, give you three things — myself, and the Shining One, and the power that is the Shining One’s — yea, and still a fourth thing that is all three — power over all upon that world from whence you came! These, my lord, ye shall have. I swear it”— she turned toward the altar — uplifted her arms —“by Siya and by Siyana, and by the flame, by the water, and by the light!” 1
Her eyes grew purple dark.
“Let none dare to take you from me! Nor ye go from me unbidden!” she whispered fiercely.
Then swiftly, still ignoring us, she threw her arms about O’Keefe, pressed her white body to his breast, lips raised, eyes closed, seeking his. O’Keefe’s arms tightened around her, his head dropped lips seeking, finding hers — passionately! From Olaf came a deep indrawn breath that was almost a groan. But not in my heart could I find blame for the Irishman!
The priestess opened eyes now all misty blue, thrust him back, stood regarding him. O’Keefe, dead-white, raised a trembling hand to his face.
“And thus have I sealed my oath, O my lord!” she whispered. For the first time she seemed to recognize our presence, stared at us a moment, then through us, and turned to O’Keefe.
“Go, now!” she said. “Soon Rador shall come for you. Then — well, after that let happen what will!”
She smiled once more at him — so sweetly; turned toward the figures upon the great globe; sank upon her knees before them. Quietly we crept away; still silent, made our way to the little pavilion. But as we passed we heard a tumult from the green roadway; shouts of men, now and then a woman’s scream. Through a rift in the garden I glimpsed a jostling crowd on one of the bridges: green dwarfs struggling with the ladala — and all about droned a humming as of a giant hive disturbed!
Larry threw himself down upon one of the divans, covered his face with his hands, dropped them to catch in Olaf’s eyes troubled reproach, looked at me.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said, half defiantly — half-miserably. “God, what a woman! I COULDN’T help it!”
“Larry,” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell her you didn’t love her — then?”
He gazed at me — the old twinkle back in his eye.
“Spoken like a scientist, Doc!” he exclaimed. “I suppose if a burning angel struck you out of nowhere and threw itself about you, you would most dignifiedly tell it you didn’t want to be burned. For God’s sake, don’t talk nonsense, Goodwin!” he ended, almost peevishly.
“Evil! Evil!” The Norseman’s voice was deep, nearly a chant. “All here is of evil: Trolldom and Helvede it is, Ja! And that she djaevelsk of beauty — what is she but harlot of that shining devil they worship. I, Olaf Huldricksson, know what she meant when she held out to you power over all the world, Ja! — as if the world had not devils enough in it now!”
“What?” The cry came from both O’Keefe and myself at once.
Olaf made a gesture of caution, relapsed into sullen silence. There were footsteps on the path, and into sight came Rador — but a Rador changed. Gone was every vestige of his mockery; curiously solemn, he saluted O’Keefe and Olaf with that salute which, before this, I had seen given only to Yolara and to Lugur. There came a swift quickening of the tumult — died away. He shrugged mighty shoulders.
“The ladala are awake!” he said. “So much for what two brave men can do!” He paused thoughtfully. “Bones and dust jostle not each other for place against the grave wall!” he added oddly. “But if bones and dust have revealed to them that they still — live —”
He stopped abruptly, eyes seeking the globe that bore and sent forth speech. 2
“The Afyo Maie has sent me to watch over you till she summons you,” he announced clearly. “There is to be a — feast. You, Larree, you Goodwin, are to come. I remain here with — Olaf.”
“No harm to him!” broke in O’Keefe sharply. Rador touched his heart, his eyes.
“By the Ancient Ones, and by my love for you, and by what you twain did before the Shining One — I swear it!” he whispered.
Rador clapped palms; a soldier came round the path, in his grip a long flat box of polished wood. The green dwarf took it, dismissed him, threw open the lid.
“Here is your apparel for the feast, Larree,” he said, pointing to the contents.
O’Keefe stared, reached down and drew out a white, shimmering, softly metallic, long-sleeved tunic, a broad, silvery girdle, leg swathings of the same argent material, and sandals that seemed to be cut out from silver. He made a quick gesture of angry dissent.
“Nay,
