d ours
and that which was hers could not share the world together. But it comes
to me that Earth would have been far less poisonous with those that were
Norhala's than it is with us and ours!"

Weeping, she passed through the curtainings, going we knew to Norhala's
chamber.

It was a strange thing indeed that she had said, I thought, watching her
go. That the garden of the world would be far less poisonous blossoming
with those Things of wedded crystal and metal and magnetic fires
than fertile as now with us of flesh and blood and bone. To me came
appreciations of their harmonies, and mingled with those perceptions
were others of humanity--disharmonious, incoordinate, ever struggling,
ever striving to destroy itself--

There was a plaintive whinnying at the open door. A long and hairy face,
a pair of patient, inquiring eyes looked in. It was a pony. For a moment
it regarded us--and then trotted trustfully through; ambled up to us;
poked its head against my side.

It had been ridden by one of the Persians whom Ruth had killed, for
under it, slipped from the girths, a saddle dangled. And its owner must
have been kind to it--we knew that from its lack of fear for us. Driven
by the tempest of the night before, it had been led back by instinct to
the protection of man.

"Some luck!" breathed Drake.

He busied himself with the pony, stripping away the hanging saddle,
grooming it.

CHAPTER XXXI. SLAG!

That night we slept well. Awakening, we found that the storm had grown
violent again; the wind roaring and the rain falling in such volume
that it was impossible to make our way to the Pit. Twice, as a matter of
fact, we tried; but the smooth roadway was a torrent, and, drenched even
through our oils to the skin, we at last abandoned the attempt. Ruth and
Drake drifted away together among the other chambers of the globe; they
were absorbed in themselves, and we did not thrust ourselves upon them.
All the day the torrents fell.

We sat down that night to what was well-nigh the last of Ventnor's
stores. Seemingly Ruth had forgotten Norhala; at least, she spoke no
more of her.

"Martin," she said, "can't we start back tomorrow? I want to get away. I
want to get back to our own world."

"As soon as the storm ceases, Ruth," he answered, "we start. Little
sister--I too want you to get back quickly."

The next morning the storm had gone. We awakened soon after dawn into
clear and brilliant light. We had a silent