"It is the last night, Graydon," she whispered, tremulously. "The last night! And so—I may talk with you for awhile." He answered nothing to that, only looked at her and smiled. Correctly she interpreted that
smile. "Ah, but it is, Graydon," she said. "I have promised. I told you that I would save you if I could. I went to the Mother, and asked her to help you. She laughed—at first. But when she saw how serious it was with me, she was gentle. And at last she promised me, as woman to woman—for after all the Mother is woman—she promised me if there was that within you which would respond to her, she would help you when you stood before the Face and—" "The Face, Sierra?" he interrupted her. "The Face in the Abyss!" she said, and shivered. "I can tell you nothing more of it. You— must stand before it. You—and those three. And, oh Graydon—you must not let it conquer you . . . you must not. . . ." Her hand drew from beneath his, clenched it tight. He drew her close to him. For a moment
she rested against his breast. "The Mother promised," she said, "and then I knew hope. But she made this condition, Graydon—if by her help you escape the Face, then you must straight-way go from this Forbidden Land, nor speak of it to any beyond its borders—to no one, no matter how near or dear. I made that promise for you, Graydon. And so"—she faltered—"and so—it is the last night."
In his heart was stubborn denial of that. But he did not speak, and after a little silence she said, wistfully— "Is there any maid who loves you—or whom you love—in your own land, Graydon?" "There is none, Sierra," he answered.
"I believe you," she said, simply, "and I would go away with you—if I could. But I cannot. The Mother loves and trusts me. And I love her—greatly. I could not leave her even for—" Suddenly she wrenched her hand from his, clenched it and struck it against her breast.
"I am weary of Yu-Atlanchi! Yes, weary of its ancient wisdom and its deathless people! I
would go into the new world where there are babes, and many of them, and the laughter of
children, and life streams swiftly, passionately—even though it is through the opened Door of
Death that it flows at last. For in Yu-Atlanchi not only the Door of Death but the Door of Life
is closed. And there are few babes, and of the laughter of children—none."
He caught the beating hand and soothed her.
"Suarra," he said, "I walk in darkness, and your words give me little light. Tell me—who are
your people?"
"The ancient people," she told him. "The most ancient. Ages upon ages ago they came here
from the south where they had dwelt for other ages still. One day the earth rocked and swung.
It was then that the great cold fell, and the darkness and the icy tempests. And many of my
people died. Then those who remained journeyed north in their ships, bearing with them the
remnant of the Serpent-people who had taught them the most of their wisdom. And the Mother is the last of that people.
"They came to rest here. At that time the sea was close and the mountains had not yet been
born. They found hordes of the Xin occupying this land. They were larger, far larger, tha