They believed that Dr. Weatherby was dying. He lay in a room off our main apartment now, still unconscious, lying with closed eyes, motionless save for the tiny stirring of his breath. It was, by earthly standards of day and night, now late afternoon, a soft, pale daylight. After another time of sleep the long night would be upon us. They could not say how long Dr. Weatherby would live. There seemed nothing to do for him. The shock of his joy over Dolores, the let-down of the tension under which he had been laboring, had brought a collapse. In hushed tones, with the awe of death upon us, we sat talking. We were on the upper half-story of the apartment off which the small bedrooms opened. I heard the sound of the door downstairs, and heard Ren’s voice. “How is he?” I leaned over the balcony. “There is no change. Come up, Ren.” He mounted the incline stairs. With him was a young girl. He introduced her gravely. “The daughter of my uncle, who now is dead. She is named Sonya; she is very proud that she has learned from me your language. Hold out your hand, child. They shake it for the greeting, you see?” I took the girl’s extended hand. She was the first woman we had seen of this new realm, and I regarded her curiously. She seemed of an age before full maturity, a small girl, small as Dolores, slim, almost fragile of body, garbed in a single short garment from neck to knees. It was a sort of smock, of soft dull-red pleats, gathered with a girdle at the waist, high at the neck, with long, tight-fitting sleeves to the wrist. Over it was a long cloak of a heavier material which she discarded upon entering. Her legs were bare. On her feet were leather sandals. Her hair was long and black as jet. Parted in the middle, it partially covered her ears, was caught by a thong at the back of her neck; and its long tresses, hanging nearly to her waist, were bound by a ribbonlike cord. Her face was oval with expressive dark eyes and long black lashes. Sensuous lips, I thought, but a mouth and chin that bespoke a firm character. A beautiful young girl, intelligent, perhaps beyond most of her race. And that she was modish was plain to be seen. Her coat had a jaunty cut to it, a lining of delicate fabric and contrasting color. Her smock was very tight at the throat, shoulders and sleeves, and tight across the bust to mould her youthful breast. It fell not quite to her knees and flared with a stiffly circular bottom. Her face carried the stamp of youth and health. She discarded her cloak and stopped to remove the skin sandals from her feet. Upon her left leg, just above the knee, was clasped a broad, white metal band. “I am glad to know the strangers.” Her glance went to the room where Dr. Weatherby was lying. “But I intrude at a very sad time for you.” She and Ren sat quietly down among us. Ren said, “Our king, too, is ill. A very old man.” He shook his head dubiously. “Oh,” said Jim. “Well, then we—”