Breathlessly I had listened to the stupendous epic of a long-lost
world. Now I found speech to voice the question ever with me, the
thing that lay as close to my heart as did the welfare of Larry,
indeed the whole object of my quest--the fate of Throckmartin and
those who had passed with him into the Dweller's lair; yes, and of
Olaf's wife, too.

"Lakla," I said, "the friend who drew me here and those he loved who
went before him--can we not save them?"

"The Three say no, Goodwin." There was again in her eyes the pity with
which she had looked upon Olaf. "The Shining One--_feeds_--upon the
flame of life itself, setting in its place its own fires and its own
will. Its slaves are only shells through which it gleams. Death, say
the Three, is the best that can come to them; yet will that be a boon
great indeed."

"But they have souls, _mavourneen_," Larry said to her. "And they're
alive still--in a way. Anyhow, their souls have not gone from them."

I caught a hope from his words--sceptic though I am--holding that the
existence of soul has never been proved by dependable laboratory
methods--for they recalled to me that when I had seen Throckmartin,
Edith had been close beside him.

"It was days after his wife was taken, that the Dweller seized
Throckmartin," I cried. "How, if their wills, their life, were indeed
gone, how did they find each other mid all that horde? How did they
come together in the Dweller's lair?"