e winds of the
Cosmos are to the summer breeze, the ocean to the wave, the lightnings
to the glowworm.

"She isn't--human," I heard Ventnor whispering at my ear. "Look at her
eyes; look at the skin of her--"

Her skin was white as milk of pearls; gossamer fine, silken and creamy;
translucent as though a soft brilliancy dwelt within it. Beside it
Ruth's fair skin was like some sun-and-wind-roughened country lass's to
Titania's.

She studied us as though she were seeing for the first time beings of
her own kind. She spoke--and her voice was elfin distant, chimingly
sweet like hidden little golden bells; filled with that tranquil, far
off spirit that was part of her--as though indeed a tiny golden chime
should ring out from the silences, speak for them, find tongues for
them. The words were hesitating, halting as though the lips that uttered
them found speech strange--as strange as the clear eyes found our
images.

And the words were Persian--purest, most ancient Persian.

"I am Norhala," the golden voice chimed forth, whispered down into
silence. "I am Norhala."

She shook her head impatiently. A hand stole forth from beneath her
veils, slender, long-fingered with nails like rosy pearls; above the
wrist was coiled a golden dragon with wicked little crimson eyes. The
slender white hand touched Ruth's head, turned it until the strange,
flecked orbs looked directly into the misty ones of blue.

Long they gazed--and deep. Then she who had named herself Norhala thrust
out a finger, touched the tear that hung upon Ruth's curled lashes,
regarded it wonderingly.

Something of recognition, of memory, seemed to awaken within her.

"You are--troubled?" she asked with that halting effort.

Ruth shook her head.

"THEY--do not trouble you?"

She pointed to the huddled heaps strewing the hollow. And then I saw
whence the light which had streamed from her great eyes came. For the
little azure and golden stars paled, trembled, then flashed out like
galaxies of tiny, clustered silver suns.

From that weird radiance Ruth shrank, affrighted.

"No--no," she gasped. "I weep for--HIM."

She pointed where Chiu-Ming lay, a brown blotch at the edge of the
shattered men.

"For--him?" There was puzzlement in the faint voice. "For--that? But
why?"

She looked at Chiu-Ming--and I knew that to her the sight of the
crumpled form carried no recognition of the human, nothing of kin to
her. There was a faint wonder in her eyes, no l