Her dress was similar to her husband’s, but covered her limbs more. She was young, tall, slender, and strikingly erect. Her skin was lightly tanned, and she looked strong, but not at all peasantlike. Refinement was stamped all over her. Her face had too much energy of expression for a woman, and she was not beautiful. Her three great eyes kept flashing and glowing. She had great masses of fine, yellow hair, coiled up and fastened, but so carelessly that some of the strands were flowing down her back. When she spoke, it was in a rather weak voice, but full of lights and shades, and somehow intense passionateness never seemed to be far away from it. “Forgiveness is asked for listening to your conversation,” she said, addressing Maskull. “I was resting behind the tree, and heard it all.” He got up slowly. “Are you Polecrab’s wife?” “She is my wife,” said Polecrab, “and her name is Gleameil. Sit down again, stranger—and you too, wife, since you are here.” They both obeyed. “I heard everything,” repeated Gleameil. “But what I did not hear was where you are going to, Maskull, after you have left us.” “I know no more than you do.” “Listen, then. There’s only one place for you to go to, and that is Swaylone’s Island. I will ferry you across myself before sunset.” “What shall I find there?” “He may go, wife,” put in the old man hoarsely, “but I won’t allow you to go. I will take him over myself.” “No, you have always put me off,” said Gleameil, with some emotion. “This time I mean to go. When Teargeld shines at night, and I sit on the shore here, listening to Earthrid’s music travelling faintly across the sea, I am tortured—I can’t endure it.... I have long since made up my mind to go to the island, and see what this music is. If it’s bad, if it kills me—well.” “What have I to do with the man and his music, Gleameil?” demanded Maskull. “I think the music will answer all your questions better than Polecrab has done—and possibly in a way that will surprise you.” “What kind of music can it be to travel all those miles across the sea?” “A peculiar kind, so we are told. Not pleasant, but painful. And the man that can play the instrument of Earthrid would be able to conjure up the most astonishing forms, which are not phantasms, but realities.” “That may be so,” growled Polecrab. “But I have been to the island by daylight, and what did I find there? Human bones, new and ancient. Those are Earthrid’s victims. And you, wife, shall not go.” “But will that music play tonight?” asked Maskull. “Yes,” replied Gleameil, gazing at him intently. “When Teargeld rises, which is our moon.” “If Earthrid plays men to death, it appears to me that his own death is due. In any case I should like to hear those sounds for myself. But as for taking you with me, Gleameil—women die too easily in Tormance. I have only just now washed myself clean of the death blood of another woman.” Gleameil laughed, but said nothing.