Chapter XVI.

       Yolara of Muria vs. The O’Keefe

       Table of Contents

      I awakened with all the familiar, homely sensation of a shade having been pulled up in a darkened room. I thrilled with a wonderful sense of deep rest and restored resiliency. The ebon shadow had vanished from above and down into the room was pouring the silvery light. From the fountain pool came a mighty splashing and shouts of laughter. I jumped and drew the curtain. O’Keefe and Rador were swimming a wild race; the dwarf like an otter, out-distancing and playing around the Irishman at will.

      Had that overpowering sleep — and now I confess that my struggle against it had been largely inspired by fear that it was the abnormal slumber which Throckmartin had described as having heralded the approach of the Dweller before it had carried away Thora and Stanton — had that sleep been after all nothing but natural reaction of tired nerves and brains?

      And that last vision of the golden-eyed girl bending over Larry? Had that also been a delusion of an overstressed mind? Well, it might have been, I could not tell. At any rate, I decided, I would speak about it to O’Keefe once we were alone again — and then giving myself up to the urge of buoyant well-being I shouted like a boy, stripped and joined the two in the pool. The water was warm and I felt the unwonted tingling of life in every vein increase; something from it seemed to pulse through the skin, carrying a clean vigorous vitality that toned every fibre. Tiring at last, we swam to the edge and drew ourselves out. The green dwarf quickly clothed himself and Larry rather carefully donned his uniform.

      “The Afyo Maie has summoned us, Doc,” he said. “We’re to — well — I suppose you’d call it breakfast with her. After that, Rador tells me, we’re to have a session with the Council of Nine. I suppose Yolara is as curious as any lady of — the upper world, as you might put it — and just naturally can’t wait,” he added.

      He gave himself a last shake, patted the automatic hidden under his left arm, whistled cheerfully,

      “After you, my dear Alphonse,” he said to Rador, with a low bow. The dwarf laughed, bent in an absurd imitation of Larry’s mocking courtesy and started ahead of us to the house of the priestess. When he had gone a little way on the orchid-walled path I whispered to O’Keefe:

      “Larry, when you were falling off to sleep — did you think you saw anything?”

      “See anything!” he grinned. “Doc, sleep hit me like a Hun shell. I thought they were pulling the gas on us. I— I had some intention of bidding you tender farewells,” he continued, half sheepishly. “I think I did start ’em, didn’t I?”

      I nodded.

      “But wait a minute —” he hesitated. “I had a queer sort of dream —”

      “‘What was it?” I asked eagerly,

      “Well,” he answered slowly, “I suppose it was because I’d been thinking of — Golden Eyes. Anyway, I thought she came through the wall and leaned over me — yes, and put one of those long white hands of hers on my head — I couldn’t raise my lids — but in some queer way I could see her. Then it got real dreamish. Why do you ask?”

      Rador turned back toward us,

      “Later,” I answered, “Not now. When we’re alone.”

      But through me went a little glow of reassurance. Whatever the maze through which we were moving; whatever of menacing evil lurking there — the Golden Girl was clearly watching over us; watching with 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