We gathered around her. A flat gray twilight was in the room. Dolores sat in the bed. Her long, dark tresses fell forward over her white shoulders. My breath came fast. To see the light, form, color, the world, for the first time! Very slowly, gently, Dr. Weatherby unwound the bandages. They dropped from his trembling hands to the bed. “Now, Dolores, open your eyes, just a little.” The dark lashes on her cheeks fluttered up, and closed instantly against the light. She could see! Her eyes opened again, timidly, fearfully. But they stayed open, glorious dark eyes, luminous, eyes that were seeing! Eyes with light in them. They opened very wide. Surprised, wondering! “I see! I see!” There were no words to express her emotion. Just surprise and awe surging in her voice, stamped on her face. “I see! Jim, is that you, Jim? Why, that’s Jim I see!” Her hand went to her eyes as though to clear a blurring vision. “That . . . must be Jim. Come here, Jim. I want to see you closer.” He fell on his knees beside the bed, and her hands went to his shoulders, his face, his hair. “Jim, it _is_ you! It looks like you!” * * * * * “When do you suppose this king will see us, Len?” Jim asked. “How is Loro?” “Oh, you weren’t here when Ren told us. More to it than he said, of course but that’s none of our business and we’re not going to make it our business. It was the end for Loro. It must have been planned that way.” “I surmised as much. It’s pretty tough. At least he carried out his last wish and was able to make atonement for his crime by giving Dolores her sight. Now to our problem: I wish the king would see us. What did Ren say about that?” I understood that our audience would be at any time. Ren was to let us know. Dolores had again fallen asleep. From where Jim and I sat I could see her bed, with Dr. Weatherby sitting there beside her. Jim said, “When we once see the king and get out of here, things will look different. Why’s the old doc sitting there so long? He acted queer to me, Len. Did you see his face when he knew that Dolores was cured?” I never answered the question. We heard a sound from in there, a choking cry, and saw Dr. Weatherby with a hand clutching his throat. “Len, what the infernal—” We rushed in. Dr. Weatherby sat looking at us. He had torn the collar of his robe with convulsive fingers. He stared at us. His hands were groping for the sides of his chair. “Len! I can’t . . . can’t get up!” Before we could reach him, his great head sagged to the high hunched shoulders. He twitched a little, then slumped inert. I swung on Jim. “Go pound on the door! Tell them to let you out! Get Ren! Tell Ren to bring a doctor, someone to help us!” “He’s . . . dead?” “No! Unconscious. He may be dying. Get help.” * * * * *