gleams of translucent ivory as exquisitely moulded, as delectably rounded, as those revealed so naively beneath the hem.
Something was knocking at the doors of my consciousness — some tragic thing. What was it? Larry! Where was Larry? I remembered; raised my head abruptly; saw at my side another frog-man carrying O’Keefe, and behind him, Olaf, step instinct with grief, following like some faithful, wistful dog who has lost a loved master. Upon my movement the monster bearing me halted, looked down inquiringly, uttered a deep, booming note that held the quality of interrogation.
Lakla turned; the clear, golden eyes were sorrowful, the sweet mouth drooping; but her loveliness, her gentleness, that undefinable synthesis of all her tender self that seemed always to circle her with an atmosphere of lucid normality, lulled my panic.
“Drink this,” she commanded, holding a small vial to my lips.
Its contents were aromatic, unfamiliar but astonishingly effective, for as soon as they passed my lips I felt a surge of strength; consciousness was restored.
“Larry!” I cried. “Is he dead?”
Lakla shook her head; her eyes were troubled.
“No,” she said; “but he is like one dead — and yet unlike —”
“Put me down,” I demanded of my bearer.
He tightened his hold; round eyes upon the Golden Girl. She spoke — in sonorous, reverberating monosyllables — and I was set upon my feet; I leaped to the side of the Irishman. He lay limp, with a disquieting, abnormal sequacity, as though every muscle were utterly flaccid; the antithesis of the rigor mortis, thank God, but terrifyingly toward the other end of its arc; a syncope I had never known. The flesh was stone cold; the pulse barely perceptible, long intervalled; the respiration undiscoverable; the pupils of the eyes were enormously dilated; it was as though life had been drawn from every nerve.
“A light flashed from the road. It struck his face and seemed to sink in,” I said.
“I saw,” answered Rador; “but what it was I know not; and I thought I knew all the weapons of our rulers.” He glanced at me curiously. “Some talk there has been that the stranger who came with you, Double Tongue, was making new death tools for Lugur,” he ended.
Marakinoff! The Russian at work already in this storehouse of devastating energies, fashioning the weapons for his plots! The Apocalyptic vision swept back upon me —
“He is not dead.” Lakla’s voice was poignant. “He is not dead; and the Three have wondrous healing. They can restore him if they will — and they will, they WILL!” For a moment she was silent. “Now their gods help Lugur and Yolara,” she whispered; “for come what may, whether the Silent Ones be strong or weak, if he dies, surely shall I fall upon them and I will slay those two — yea, though I, too perish!”
“Yolara and Lugur shall both die.” Olaf’s eyes were burning. “But Lugur is mine to slay.”
That pity I had seen before in Lakla’s eyes when she looked upon the Norseman banished the white wrath from them. She turned, half hurriedly, as though to escape his gaze.
“Walk with us,” she said to me, “unless you are still weak.”
I shook my head, gave a last look at O’Keefe; there was nothing I could do; I stepped beside her. She thrust a white arm into mine protectingly, the wonderfully moulded hand with its long, tapering fingers catching about my wrist; my heart glowed toward her.
“Your medicine is potent, handmaiden,” I answered. “And the touch of your hand would give me strength enough, even had I not drunk it,” I added in Larry’s best manner.
Her eyes danced, trouble flying.
“Now, that was well spoken for such a man of wisdom as Rador tells me you are,” she laughed; and a little pang shot through me. Could not a lover of science present a compliment without it always seeming to be as unusual as plucking a damask rose from a cabinet of fossils?
Mustering my philosophy, I smiled back at her. Again I noted that broad, classic brow, with the little tendrils of shining bronze caressing it, the tilted, delicate, nut-brown brows that gave a curious touch of innocent diablerie to the lovely face — flowerlike, pure, high-bred, a touch of roguishness, subtly alluring, sparkling over the maiden Madonnaness that lay ever like a delicate, luminous suggestion beneath it; the long, black, curling lashes — the tender, rounded, bare left breast —
“I have always liked you,” she murmured naively, “since first I saw you in that place where the Shining One goes forth into your world. And I am glad you like my medicine as well as that you carry in the black box that you left behind,” she added swiftly.
“How know you of that, Lakla?” I gasped.
“Oft and oft I came to him there, and to you, while you lay sleeping. How call you HIM?” She paused.
“Larry!” I said.
“Larry!” she repeated it excellently. “And you?”
“Goodwin,” said Rador.
I bowed quite as though I were being introduced to some charming young lady met in that old life now seemingly aeons removed.
“Yes — Goodwin.” she said. “Oft and oft I came. Sometimes I thought you saw me. And HE— did he not dream of me sometime —?” she asked wistfully.
“He did.” I said, “and watched for you.” Then amazement grew vocal. “But how came you?” I asked.
“By a strange road,” she whispered, “to see that all was well with HIM— and to look into his heart; for I feared Yolara and her beauty. But I saw that she was not in his heart.” A blush burned over her, turning even the little bare breast rosy. “It is a strange road,” she went on hurriedly. “Many times have I followed it and watched the Shining One bear back its prey to the blue pool; seen the woman HE seeks”— she made a quick gesture toward Olaf —“and a babe cast from her arms in the last pang of her mother love; seen another woman throw herself into the Shining One’s embrace to save a man she loved; and I could not help!” Her voice grew deep, thrilled. “The friend, it comes to me, who drew you here, Goodwin!”
She was silent, walking as one who sees visions and listens to voices unheard by others, Rador made a warning gesture; I crowded back my questions, glanced about me. We were passing over a smooth strand, hard packed as some beach of long-thrust-back ocean. It was like crushed garnets, each grain stained deep red, faintly sparkling. On each side were distances, the floor stretching away into them bare of vegetation — stretching on and on into infinitudes of rosy mist, even as did the space above.
Flanking and behind us marched the giant batrachians, fivescore of them at least, black scale and crimson scale lustrous and gleaming in the rosaceous radiance; saucer eyes shining circles of phosphorescence green, purple, red; spurs clicking as they crouched along with a gait at once grotesque and formidable.
Ahead the mist deepened into a ruddier glow; through it a long, dark line began to appear — the mouth I thought of the caverned space through which we were going; it was just before us; over us — we stood bathed in a flood of rubescence!
A sea stretched before us — a crimson sea, gleaming like that lost lacquer of royal coral and the Flame Dragon’s
