whatever unknown powers she could muster.
We passed the pillared entrance; went through a long bowered corridor and stopped before a door that seemed to be sliced from a monolith of pale jade—high, narrow, set in a wall of opal.
Rador stamped twice and the same supernally sweet, silver bell tones of—yesterday, I must call it, although in that place of eternal day the term is meaningless—bade us enter. The door slipped aside. The chamber was small, the opal walls screening it on three sides, the black opacity covering it, the fourth side opening out into a delicious little walled garden—a mass of the fragrant, luminous blooms and delicately colored fruit. Facing it was a small table of reddish wood and from the omnipresent cushions heaped around it arose to greet us—Yolara.
Larry drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp of admiration and bowed low. My own admiration was as frank—and the priestess was well pleased with our homage.
She was swathed in the filmy, half-revelant webs, now of palest blue. The corn-silk hair was caught within a wide-meshed golden net in which sparkled tiny brilliants, like blended sapphires and diamonds. Her own azure eyes sparkled as brightly as they, and I noted again in their clear depths the half-eager approval as they rested upon O’Keefe’s lithe, well-knit figure and his keen, clean-cut face. The high-arched, slender feet rested upon soft sandals whose gauzy withes laced the exquisitely formed leg to just below the dimpled knee.
“Some giddy wonder!” exclaimed Larry, looking at me and placing a hand over his heart. “Put her on a New York roof and she’d empty Broadway. Take the cue from me, Doc.”
He turned to Yolara, whose face was somewhat puzzled.
“I said, O lady whose shining hair is a web for hearts, that in our world your beauty would dazzle the sight of men as would a little woman sun!” he said, in the florid imagery to which the tongue lends itself so well.
A flush stole up through the translucent skin. The blue eyes softened and she waved us toward the cushions. Black-haired maids stole in, placing before us the fruits, the little loaves and a steaming drink somewhat the colour and odor of chocolate. I was conscious of outrageous hunger.
“What are you named, strangers?” she asked.
“This man is named Goodwin,” said O’Keefe. “As for me, call me Larry.”
“Nothing like getting acquainted quick,” he said to me—but kept his eyes upon Yolara as though he were voicing another honeyed phrase. And so she took it, for: “You must teach me your tongue,” she murmured.
“Then shall I have two words where now I have one to tell you of your loveliness,” he answered.
“And also that’ll take time,” he spoke to me. “Essential occupation out of which we can’t be drafted to make these fun-loving folk any Roman holiday. Get me!”
“Larree,” mused Yolara. “I like the sound. It is sweet—” and indeed it was as she spoke it.
“And what is your land named, Larree?” she continued. “And Goodwin’s?” She caught the sound perfectly.
“My land, O lady of loveliness, is two—Ireland and America; his but one—America.”
She repeated the two names—slowly, over and over. We seized the opportunity to attack the food; halting half guiltily as she spoke again.
“Oh, but you are hungry!” she cried. “Eat then.” She leaned her chin upon her hands and regarded us, whole fountains of questions brimming up in her eyes.
“How is it, Larree, that you have two countries and Goodwin but one?” she asked, at last unable to keep silent longer.
“I was born in Ireland; he in America. But I have dwelt long in his land and my heart loves each,” he said.
She nodded, understandingly.
“Are all the men of Ireland like you, Larree? As all the men here are like Lugur or Rador? I like to look at you,” she went on, with naive frankness. “I am tired of men like Lugur and Rador. But they are strong,” she added, swiftly. “Lugur can hold up ten in his two arms and raise six with but one hand.”
We could not understand her numerals and she raised white fingers to illustrate.
“That is little, O lady, to the men of Ireland,” replied O’Keefe. “Lo, I have seen one of my race hold up ten times ten of our—what call you that swift thing in which Rador brought us here?”
“Corial,” said she.
“Hold up ten times twenty of our corials with but two fingers—and these corials of ours—”
“Coria,” said she.
“And these coria of ours are each greater in weight than ten of yours. Yes, and I have seen another with but one blow of his hand raise hell!
“And so I have,” he murmured to me. “And both at Forty-second and Fifth Avenue, N. Y.—U. S. A.”
Yolara considered all this with manifest doubt.
“Hell?” she inquired at last. “I know not the word.”
“Well,” answered O’Keefe. “Say Muria then. In many ways they are, I gather, O heart’s delight, one and the same.”
Now the doubt in the blue eyes was strong indeed. She shook her head.
“None of our men can do that!” she answered, at length. “Nor do I think you could, Larree.”
“Oh, no,” said Larry easily. “I never tried to be that strong. I fly,” he added, casually.
The priestess rose to her feet, gazing at him with startled eyes.
“Fly!” she repeated incredulously. “Like a Zitia? A bird?”
Larry nodded—and then seeing the dawning command in her eyes, went on hastily.
“Not with my own wings, Yolara. In a—a corial that moves through—what’s the word for air, Doc—well, through this—” He made a wide gesture up toward the nebulous haze above us. He took a pencil and on a white cloth made a hasty sketch of an airplane. “In a—a corial like this—” She regarded the sketch gravely, thrust a hand down into her girdle and brought forth a keen-bladed poniard; cut Larry’s markings out and placed the fragment carefully aside.
“That I can understand,” she said.
“Remarkably intelligent young woman,” muttered O’Keefe. “Hope I’m not giving anything away—but she had me.”
“But what are your women like, Larree? Are they like me? And how many have loved you?” she whispered.
“In all Ireland and America there is none like you, Yolara,” he answered. “And take that any way you please,” he muttered in English. She took it, it was evident, as it most pleased her.
“Do you have goddesses?” she asked.
“Every woman in Ireland and America, is a goddess”; thus Larry.
“Now
