.

faintly, so faintly? My heart gave a great throb and seemed to stop for an eternity. What was it — coming nearer, ever nearer? Now Lakla and O’Keefe heard it, life ebbing from lips and cheeks.

      Nearer, nearer — a music as of myriads of tiny crystal bells, tinkling, tinkling — a storm of pizzicati upon violins of glass! Nearer, nearer — not sweetly now, nor luring; no — raging, wrathful, sinister beyond words; sweeping on; nearer —

      The Dweller! The Shining One!

      We leaped to the narrow window; peered out, aghast. The bell notes swept through and about us, a hurricane. The crescent strand was once more a ferment. Back, back were the Akka being swept, as though by brooms, tottering on the edge of the ledge, falling into the waters. Swiftly they were finished; and where they had fought was an eddying throng clothed in tatters or naked, swaying, drifting, arms tossing — like marionettes of Satan.

      The dead-alive! The slaves of the Dweller!

      They swayed and tossed, and then, like water racing through an opened dam, they swept upon the bridge-head. On and on they pushed, like the bore of a mighty tide. The frog-men strove against them, clubbing, spearing, tearing them. But even those worst smitten seemed not to fall. On they pushed, driving forward, irresistible — a battering ram of flesh and bone. They clove the masses of the Akka, pressing them to the sides of the bridge and over. Through the open gates they forced them — for there was no room for the frog-men to stand against that implacable tide.

      Then those of the Akka who were left turned their backs and ran. We heard the clang of the golden wings of the portal, and none too soon to keep out the first of the Dweller’s dreadful hordes.

      Now upon the cavern ledge and over the whole length of the bridge there were none but the dead-alive, men and women, black-polled ladala, sloe-eyed Malays, slant-eyed Chinese, men of every race that sailed the seas — milling, turning, swaying, like leaves caught in a sluggish current.

      The bell notes became sharper, more insistent. At the cavern mouth a radiance began to grow — a gleaming from which the atoms of diamond dust seemed to try to flee. As the radiance grew and the crystal notes rang nearer, every head of that hideous multitude turned stiffly, slowly toward the right, looking toward the far bridge end; their eyes fixed and glaring; every face an inhuman mask of rapture and of horror!

      A movement shook them. Those in the centre began to stream back, faster and ever faster, leaving motionless deep ranks on each side. Back they flowed until from golden doors to cavern mouth a wide lane stretched, walled on each side by the dead-alive.

      The far radiance became brighter; it gathered itself at the end of the dreadful lane; it was shot with sparklings and with pulsings of polychromatic light. The crystal storm was intolerable, piercing the ears with countless tiny lances; brighter still the radiance.

      From the cavern swirled the Shining One!

      The Dweller paused, seemed to scan the island of the Silent Ones half doubtfully; then slowly, stately, it drifted out upon the bridge. Closer it drew; behind it glided Yolara at the head of a company of her dwarfs, and at her side was the hag of the Council whose face was the withered, shattered echo of her own.

      Slower grew the Dweller’s pace as it drew nearer. Did I sense in it a doubt, an uncertainty? The crystal-tongued, unseen choristers that accompanied it subtly seemed to reflect the doubt; their notes were not sure, no longer insistent; rather was there in them an undertone of hesitancy, of warning! Yet on came the Shining One until it stood plain beneath us, searching with those eyes that thrust from and withdrew into unknown spheres, the golden gateway, the cliff face, the castle’s rounded bulk — and more intently than any of these, the dome wherein sat the Three.

      Behind it each face of the dead-alive turned toward it, and those beside it throbbed and gleamed with its luminescence.

      Yolara crept close, just beyond the reach of its spirals. She murmured — and the Dweller bent toward her, its seven globes steady in their shining mists, as though listening. It drew erect once more, resumed its doubtful scrutiny. Yolara’s face darkened; she turned abruptly, spoke to a captain of her guards. A dwarf raced back between the palisades of dead-alive.

      Now the priestess cried out, her voice ringing like a silver clarion.

      “Ye are done, ye Three! The Shining One stands at your door, demanding entrance. Your beasts are slain and your power is gone. Who are ye, says the Shining One, to deny it entrance to the place of its birth?”

      “Ye do not answer,” she cried again, “yet know we that ye hear! The Shining One offers these terms: Send forth your handmaiden and that lying stranger she stole; send them forth to us — and perhaps ye may live. But if ye send them not forth, then shall ye too die — and soon!”

      We waited, silent, even as did Yolara — and again there was no answer from the Three.

      The priestess laughed; the blue eyes flashed.

      “It is ended!” she cried. “If you will not open, needs must we open for you!”

      Over the bridge was marching a long double file of the dwarfs. They bore a smoothed and handled tree-trunk whose head was knobbed with a huge hall of metal. Past the priestess, past the Shining One, they carried it; fifty of them to each side of the ram; and behind them stepped — Marakinoff!

      Larry awoke to life.

      “Now, thank God,” he rasped, “I can get that devil, anyway!”

      He drew his pistol, took careful aim. Even as he pressed the trigger there rang through the abode a tremendous clanging. The ram was battering at the gates. O’Keefe’s bullet went wild. The Russian must have heard the shot; perhaps the missile was closer than we knew. He made a swift leap behind the guards; was lost to sight.

      Once more the thunderous clanging rang through the castle.

      Lakla drew herself erect; down upon her dropped the listening aloofness. Gravely she bowed her head.

      “It is time, O love of mine.” She turned to O’Keefe. “The Silent Ones say that the way of fear is closed, but the way of love is open. They call upon us to redeem our promise!”

      For a hundred heart-beats they clung to each other, breast to breast and lip to lip. Below, the clangour was increasing, the great trunk swinging harder and faster upon the metal gates. Now Lakla gently loosed the arms of the O’Keefe, and for another instant those two looked into each other’s souls. The handmaiden smiled tremulously.

      “I would it might have been otherwise, Larry darlin’,” she whispered. “But at least — we pass together, dearest of mine!”

      She leaped to the window.

      “Yolara!” the golden voice rang out sweetly. The clanging ceased. “Draw back your men. We open the Portal and come forth to you and the Shining One — Larry and I.”

      The priestess’s silver chimes of laughter rang out, cruel, mocking.

      “Come, then, quickly,” she jeered. “For surely both the Shining One and I yearn for you!” Her malice-laden laughter chimed high once more. “Keep us not lonely long!” the priestess mocked.

      Larry drew a deep breath, stretched both hands out to me.

      “It’s good-by, I guess, Doc.” His voice was strained. “Good-by and good luck, old boy. If you get out, and you WILL, let the old Dolphin know I’m gone. And carry on, pal — and always remember the O’Keefe loved you like a brother.”

      I squeezed his hands desperately. Then out of my balanceshaking woe a strange comfort was born.

      “Maybe it’s not good-by, Larry!” I cried. “The banshee has not cried!”

      A flash of hope passed over his face; the old reckless grin shone forth.

      “It’s so!” he said. “By the Lord, it’s so!”

      Then Lakla bent toward me, and for the second time — kissed me.