The mist fell; the eyes gleamed out again, inscrutable.
And groping out of the radiance, pausing at the verge of the dais,
leaping down from it, came Larry, laughing, filled with life, blinking
as one who draws from darkness into sunshine. He saw Lakla, sprang to
her, gripped her in his arms.
"Lakla!" he cried. "Mavourneen!" She slipped from his embrace,
blushing, glancing at the Three shyly, half-fearfully. And again I saw
the tenderness creep into the inky, flame-shot orbs of the woman
being; and a tenderness in the others too--as though they regarded
some well-beloved child.
"You lay in the arms of Death, Larry," she said. "And the Silent Ones
drew you from him. Do homage to the Silent Ones, Larry, for they are
good and they are mighty!"
She turned his head with one of the long, white hands--and he looked
into the faces of the Three; looked long, was shaken even as had been
Olaf and myself; was swept by that same wave of power and of--of--what
can I call it?--_holiness_ that streamed from them.
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