replied he. The anger died out and she laughed, sweetly, understandingly.
“And which goddess do you worship, Larree?”
“You!” said Larry O’Keefe boldly.
“Larry! Larry!” I whispered. “Be careful. It’s high explosive.”
But the priestess was laughing—little trills of sweet bell notes; and pleasure was in each note.
“You are indeed bold, Larree,” she said, “to offer me your worship. Yet am I pleased by your boldness. Still—Lugur is strong; and you are not of those who—what did you say—have tried. And your wings are not here—Larree!”
Again her laughter rang out. The Irishman flushed; it was touché for Yolara!
“Fear not for me with Lugur,” he said, grimly. “Rather fear for him!”
The laughter died; she looked at him searchingly; a little enigmatic smile about her mouth—so sweet and so cruel.
“Well—we shall see,” she murmured. “You say you battle in your world. With what?”
“Oh, with this and with that,” answered Larry, airily. “We manage—”
“Have you the Keth—I mean that with which I sent Songar into the nothingness?” she asked swiftly.
“See what she’s driving at?” O’Keefe spoke to me, swiftly. “Well I do! But here’s where the O’Keefe lands.
“I said,” he turned to her, “O voice of silver fire, that your spirit is high even as your beauty—and searches out men’s souls as does your loveliness their hearts. And now listen, Yolara, for what I speak is truth”—into his eyes came the far-away gaze; into his voice the Irish softness—“Lo, in my land of Ireland, this many of your life’s length agone—see”—he raised his ten fingers, clenched and unclenched them times twenty—“the mighty men of my race, the Taitha-da-Dainn, could send men out into the nothingness even as do you with the Keth. And this they did by their harpings, and by words spoken—words of power, O Yolara, that have their power still—and by pipings and by slaying sounds.
“There was Cravetheen who played swift flames from his harp, flying flames that ate those they were sent against. And there was Dalua, of Hy Brasil, whose pipes played away from man and beast and all living things their shadows—and at last played them to shadows too, so that wherever Dalua went his shadows that had been men and beast followed like a storm of little rustling leaves; yea, and Bel the Harper, who could make women’s hearts run like wax and men’s hearts flame to ashes and whose harpings could shatter strong cliffs and bow great trees to the sod—”
His eyes were bright, dream-filled; she shrank a little from him, faint pallor under the perfect skin.
“I say to you, Yolara, that these things were and are—in Ireland.” His voice rang strong. “And I have seen men as many as those that are in your great chamber this many times over”—he clenched his hands once more, perhaps a dozen times—“blasted into nothingness before your Keth could even have touched them. Yea—and rocks as mighty as those through which we came lifted up and shattered before the lids could fall over your blue eyes. And this is truth, Yolara—all truth! Stay—have you that little cone of the Keth with which you destroyed Songar?”
She nodded, gazing at him, fascinated, fear and puzzlement contending.
“Then use it.” He took a vase of crystal from the table, placed it on the threshold that led into the garden. “Use it on this—and I will show you.”
“I will use it upon one of the ladala—” she began eagerly.
The exaltation dropped from him; there was a touch of horror in the eyes he turned to her; her own dropped before it.
“It shall be as you say,” she said hurriedly. She drew the shining cone from her breast; levelled it at the vase. The green ray leaped forth, spread over the crystal, but before its action could even be begun, a flash of light shot from O’Keefe’s hand, his automatic spat and the trembling vase flew into fragments. As quickly as he had drawn it, he thrust the pistol back into place and stood there empty handed, looking at her sternly. From the anteroom came shouting, a rush of feet.
Yolara’s face was white, her eyes strained—but her voice was unshaken as she called to the clamouring guards:
“It is nothing—go to your places!”
But when the sound of their return had ceased she stared tensely at the Irishman—then looked again at the shattered vase.
“It is true!” she cried, “but see, the Keth is—alive!”
I followed her pointing finger. Each broken bit of the crystal was vibrating, shaking its particles out into space. Broken it the bullet of Larry’s had—but not released it from the grip of the disintegrating force. The priestess’s face was triumphant.
“But what matters it, O shining urn of beauty—what matters it to the vase that is broken what happens to its fragments?” asked Larry, gravely—and pointedly.
The triumph died from her face and for a space she was silent; brooding.
“Next,” whispered O’Keefe to me. “Lots of surprises in the little box; keep your eye on the opening and see what comes out.”
We had not long to wait. There was a sparkle of anger about Yolara, something too of injured pride. She clapped her hands; whispered to the maid who answered her summons, and then sat back regarding us, maliciously.
“You have answered me as to your strength—but you have not proved it; but the Keth you have answered. Now answer this!” she said.
She pointed out into the garden. I saw a flowering branch bend and snap as though a hand had broken it—but no hand was there! Saw then another and another bend and break, a little tree sway and fall—and closer and closer to us came the trail of snapping boughs while down into the garden poured the silvery light revealing—nothing! Now a great ewer beside a pillar rose swiftly in air and hurled itself crashing at my feet. Cushions close to us swirled about as though in the vortex of a whirlwind.
And unseen hands held my arms in a mighty clutch fast to my sides, another gripped my throat and I felt a needle-sharp poniard point pierce my shirt, touch the skin just over my heart!
“Larry!” I cried, despairingly. I twisted my head; saw that he too was caught in this grip of the invisible. But his face was calm, even amused.
“Keep cool, Doc!” he said. “Remember—she wants to learn the language!”
Now from Yolara burst chime upon chime of mocking laughter. She gave a command—the hands loosened, the poniard withdrew from my heart; suddenly as I had been caught I was free—and unpleasantly weak and shaky.
“Have you that in Ireland, Larree!” cried the priestess—and once more trembled with laughter.
“A good play, Yolara.” His voice was as calm as his face. “But they did that in Ireland even before Dalua piped away his first man’s shadow. And in Goodwin’s land they make ships—coria that go on water—so you can pass by them and see only sea and sky; and those water coria are each of them many times
