With the query the girl-soul’s eyes were lighted by a vague gleam--a suggestion that night is not so much the end of a day past as the beginning of one to come. “Heaven?” His Majesty scowled down at her. “Heaven, it is supposed, will be progress--assured realization. Tell me, did you ever find anything in realization?” “No, not yet. But without faith----” “A synonym for Heaven, that ‘not yet’!”--he said intolerantly. “As for faith--bah! Faith is the fear of fools.” * * * * * Hurrying her toward the waiting Hawk, he broached: “I am going to fly you back to Apollyon Palace over a section which I think will enlarge your conception of my place. Everything is at a standstill down here, _except_----” The eager look which completed his sentence filled Dolores with uneasiness greater than that aroused by the futile labors of the Lane. Evidently he, master of these denizens of doom, believed in some personal achievement. Did he also hope in vain? Last night she had crucified her modesty of soul in the hope of saving herself and her baby from punishment. Would her effort fail? And John Cabot--oh, surely the faith with which she clung to that hope of one day seeing John again was not the fear of a fool! The apprehension seen in all faces that morning now looked from out her own. She felt much as when told the nature of her employment in Vincent Seff’s shop that long-ago day on Earth, after she had spent the sum advanced her. What price was to be exacted of her in this new position? What meant that studying regard of her--what the varied encouragements which depressed her with sensations more heavy, if less intelligible, than any of those proved prescience in her former state? Until _when_? If _what_? _Except----?_ * * * * * “Except me.” Not until they were cleaving the air directly beneath the high-swung sun did the King complete his suspended sentence. Like mere specks behind and below them were the cages and huts, the caves and wells and morasses of the lower bad-lands. On either side discernible objects blended into the sand sites reserved for expansion. Ahead, farther than the mind could think, stretched yet more distances. Truly a Cyclopean panorama, this topographical review of the hope-hell of the lost! Dolores could not regard merely the spectacle. Even as she gazed forward and back, her heart ached over such few individuals as she had seen and over the many she had not seen. Some, mayhap, deserved their fate, although most, she felt sure, were as was she, victims of the shallow judgments of men. Would they, _could_ they endure until the Supreme Judge entered court? Could she? At the burn of dry tears within her eyelids, she remembered Satan’s exultation over the weeping angels. Even should she weep, her tears, like the crone-soul’s, would be salt--would tantalize, rather than refresh. She choked back her emotion.