Olaf made a gesture of caution, relapsed into sullen silence. There were footsteps on the path, and into sight came Rador—but a Rador changed. Gone was every vestige of his mockery; curiously solemn, he saluted O’Keefe and Olaf with that salute which, before this, I had seen given only to Yolara and to Lugur. There came a swift quickening of the tumult—died away. He shrugged mighty shoulders.
“The ladala are awake!” he said. “So much for what two brave men can do!” He paused thoughtfully. “Bones and dust jostle not each other for place against the grave wall!” he added oddly. “But if bones and dust have revealed to them that they still—live—”
He stopped abruptly, eyes seeking the globe that bore and sent forth speech.5
“The Afyo Maie has sent me to watch over you till she summons you,” he announced clearly. “There is to be a—feast. You, Larree, you Goodwin, are to come. I remain here with—Olaf.”
“No harm to him!” broke in O’Keefe sharply. Rador touched his heart, his eyes.
“By the Ancient Ones, and by my love for you, and by what you twain did before the Shining One—I swear it!” he whispered.
Rador clapped palms; a soldier came round the path, in his grip a long flat box of polished wood. The green dwarf took it, dismissed him, threw open the lid.
“Here is your apparel for the feast, Larree,” he said, pointing to the contents.
O’Keefe stared, reached down and drew out a white, shimmering, softly metallic, long-sleeved tunic, a broad, silvery girdle, leg swathings of the same argent material, and sandals that seemed to be cut out from silver. He made a quick gesture of angry dissent.
“Nay, Larree!” muttered the dwarf. “Wear them—I counsel it—I pray it—ask me not why,” he went on swiftly, looking again at the globe.
O’Keefe, as I, was impressed by his earnestness. The dwarf made a curiously expressive pleading gesture. O’Keefe abruptly took the garments; passed into the room of the fountain.
“The Shining One dances not again?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “No”—he hesitate—“it is the usual feast that follows the sacrament! Lugur—and Double Tongue, who came with you, will be there,” he added slowly.
“Lugur—” I gasped in astonishment. “After what happened—he will be there?”
“Perhaps because of what happened, Goodwin, my friend,” he answered—his eyes again full of malice; “and there will be others—friends of Yolara—friends of Lugur—and perhaps another”—his voice was almost inaudible—“one whom they have not called—” He halted, half-fearfully, glancing at the globe; put finger to lips and spread himself out upon one of the couches.
“Strike up the band”—came O’Keefe’s voice—“here comes the hero!”
He strode into the room. I am bound to say that the admiration in Rador’s eyes was reflected in my own, and even, if involuntarily, in Olaf’s.
“A son of Siyana!” whispered Rador.
He knelt, took from his girdle-pouch a silk-wrapped something, unwound it—and, still kneeling, drew out a slender poniard of gleaming white metal, hilted with the blue stones; he thrust it into O’Keefe’s girdle; then gave him again the rare salute.
“Come,” he ordered and took us to the head of the pathway.
“Now,” he said grimly, “let the Silent Ones show their power—if they still have it!”
And with this strange benediction, he turned back.
“For God’s sake, Larry,” I urged as we approached the house of the priestess, “you’ll be careful!”
He nodded—but I saw with a little deadly pang of apprehension in my heart a puzzled, lurking doubt within his eyes.
As we ascended the serpent steps Marakinoff appeared. He gave a signal to our guards—and I wondered what influence the Russian had attained, for promptly, without question, they drew aside. At me he smiled amiably.
“Have you found your friends yet?” he went on—and now I sensed something deeply sinister in him. “No! It is too bad! Well, don’t give up hope.” He turned to O’Keefe.
“Lieutenant, I would like to speak to you—alone!”
“I’ve no secrets from Goodwin,” answered O’Keefe.
“So?” queried Marakinoff, suavely. He bent, whispered to Larry.
The Irishman started, eyed him with a certain shocked incredulity, then turned to me.
“Just a minute, Doc!” he said, and I caught the suspicion of a wink. They drew aside, out of ear-shot. The Russian talked rapidly. Larry was all attention. Marakinoff’s earnestness became intense; O’Keefe interrupted—appeared to question. Marakinoff glanced at me and as his gaze shifted from O’Keefe, I saw a flame of rage and horror blaze up in the latter’s eyes. At last the Irishman appeared to consider gravely; nodded as though he had arrived at some decision, and Marakinoff thrust his hand to him.
And only I could have noticed Larry’s shrinking, his microscopic hesitation before he took it, and his involuntary movement, as though to shake off something unclean, when the clasp had ended.
Marakinoff, without another look at me, turned and went quickly within. The guards took their places. I looked at Larry inquiringly.
“Don’t ask a thing now, Doc!” he said tensely. “Wait till we get home. But we’ve got to get damned busy and quick—I’ll tell you that now—”
CHAPTER XX
The Tempting of Larry
We paused before thick curtains, through which came the faint murmur of many voices. They parted; out came two—ushers, I suppose, they were—in cuirasses and kilts that reminded me somewhat of chain-mail—the first armour of any kind here that I had seen. They held open the folds.
The chamber, on whose threshold we stood, was far larger than either anteroom or hall of audience. Not less than three hundred feet long and half that in depth, from end to end of it ran two huge semi-circular tables, paralleling each other, divided by a wide aisle, and heaped with flowers, with fruits, with viands unknown to me, and glittering with crystal flagons, beakers, goblets of as many hues as the blooms. On the gay-cushioned couches that flanked the tables, lounging luxuriously, were scores of the fair-haired ruling class and there rose a little buzz of admiration, oddly mixed with a half-startled amaze, as their gaze fell upon O’Keefe in all his silvery magnificence. Everywhere the light-giving globes sent their roseate radiance.
The cuirassed dwarfs led us through the aisle. Within the arc of the inner half—circle was another glittering board, an oval. But of those seated there, facing us—I had eyes for only one—Yolara! She swayed up to greet O’Keefe—and she was like one of those white lily maids, whose beauty Hoang-Ku, the sage, says made the Gobi first a paradise, and whose lusts later the burned-out desert that it is. She held out hands to Larry, and on her face was passion—unashamed, unhiding.
She was Circe—but Circe conquered. Webs of filmiest white clung to the rose-leaf body. Twisted through the corn-silk hair a threaded circlet of pale sapphires shone; but they were pale beside Yolara’s eyes. O’Keefe bent, kissed her hands, something more than mere admiration flaming from him. She saw—and, smiling, drew him down beside her.
It came to me that of all, only these two, Yolara and O’Keefe, were in white—and I wondered; then with a tightening of nerves ceased to wonder as there entered—Lugur! He was all in scarlet, and as he strode forward a silence fell a tense, strained silence.
His gaze turned upon Yolara, rested upon O’Keefe, and instantly his face grew—dreadful—there is no other word