"The _Afyo Maie_ has sent me to watch over you till she summons you,"
he announced clearly. "There is to be a--feast. You, _Larree_, you
Goodwin, are to come. I remain here with--Olaf."

"No harm to him!" broke in O'Keefe sharply. Rador touched his heart,
his eyes.

"By the Ancient Ones, and by my love for you, and by what you twain
did before the Shining One--I swear it!" he whispered.

Rador clapped palms; a soldier came round the path, in his grip a long
flat box of polished wood. The green dwarf took it, dismissed him,
threw open the lid.

"Here is your apparel for the feast, _Larree_," he said, pointing to
the contents.

O'Keefe stared, reached down and drew out a white, shimmering, softly
metallic, long-sleeved tunic, a broad, silvery girdle, leg swathings
of the same argent material, and sandals that seemed to be cut out
from silver. He made a quick gesture of angry dissent.

"Nay, _Larree_!" muttered the dwarf. "Wear them--I counsel it--I pray
it--ask me not why," he went on swiftly, looking again at the globe.

O'Keefe, as I, was impressed by his earnestness. The dwarf made a
curiously expressive pleading gesture. O'Keefe abruptly took the
garments; passed into the room of the fountain.

"The Shining One dances not again?" I asked.

"No," he said. "No"--he hesitate--"it is the usual feast that follows
the sacrament! Lugur--and Double Tongue, who came with you, will be
there," he added slowly.

"Lugur--" I gasped in astonishment. "After what happened--he will be
there?"

"Perhaps because of what happened, Goodwin, my friend," he
answered--his eyes again full of malice; "and there will be
others--friends of Yolara--friends of Lugur--and perhaps
another"--his voice was almost inaudible--"one whom they have not
called--" He halted, half-fearfully, glancing at the globe; put finger
to lips and spread himself out upon one of the couches.

"Strike up the band"--came O'Keefe's voice--"here comes the hero!"

He strode into the room. I am bound to say that the admiration in
Rador's eyes was reflected in my own, and even, if involuntarily, in
Olaf's.

"A son of Siyana!" whispered Rador.

He knelt, took from his girdle-pouch a silk-wrapped something, unwound
it--and, still kneeling, drew out a slender poniard of gleaming white
metal, hilted with the blue stones; he thrust it into O'Keefe's
girdle; then gave him again the rare salute.

"Come," he ordered and took us to the head of the pathway.