"Only the steeped root of our _n'gahar_ plant, my daughter--a simple weed brought up from the bottom of this sea by our strong divers. It is nothing, nothing." Came silence again. The aged man sat down upon a curved stone bench that followed the contour of the farther wall. Presently he spoke once more. "Daughter," said he, "it is now ten sleeping--times--nights, the English speech calls them, if I remember what my grandfather taught me--since the battle. And my son, here, still lies weak and sick. I go soon to get still other plants for him. Stronger plants, to make him well and powerful again. For there is haste now--haste!" "You mean--Kamrou?" "Yea, Kamrou! I know the temper of that evil man better than any other. He and his boats may return from the great fisheries in the White Gulf beyond the vortex at any time, and--" "But, father, after all we've done for the village here, and especially after what Allan's done? After this wonderful victory, I can't believe--" "You do not know that man!" exclaimed the patriarch. "_I_ know him! Rather would he and his slay every living thing in this community than yield one smallest atom of power to any other." He arose wearily and gathered his mantle all about him, then reached for his staff that leaned beside the outer door. "Peace!" he exclaimed. "Ah, when shall we have peace and learning and a better life again? The teaching and the learning of the English speech and all the arts you know, now lost to us--to us, the abandoned Folk in the abyss? When? When?" He raised the curtain to depart; but even then he paused once more, and turned to her. "Verily, you have spoken truth," said he, "when you have said that all, all _here_ are with us, with you and this wondrous man now lying weak and wounded in my house. But Kamrou--is different. Alas, you know him not--you know him not! "Watch well over my son, here! Soon must he grow strong again. Soon, soon! Soon, against the coming of Kamrou. For if the chief returns and my son be weak still, then woe to him, to you, to me! Woe to us all! Woe, Woe!" The curtain fell. The patriarch was gone. Outside, Beatrice heard the click-click-click of his iron staff upon the smooth and flinty rock floor. And to her ears, mingled with the far roaring of the flame, drifted the words: "Woe, woe to him! Woe to us all--woe--woe!" CHAPTER XXX EXPLORATION Under the ministering care of Beatrice and the patriarch, Stern's convalescence was rapid. The old man, consumed with terror lest the dreaded chief, Kamrou, return ere the stranger should have wholly recovered, spent himself in efforts to hasten the cure. And with deft skill he brewed his potions, made his salves, and concocted revivifying medicines from minerals which only he--despite his blindness--knew how to compound.