The Druid went on, "Orander sent a message to you, Elak. You, in all Atlantis, are of the royal line of Cyrena. Yours, therefore, is the crown. It will not be easy to hold. Karkora is not defeated. But my magic will aid you." Elak said, "You offer me the dragon throne?" Dalan nodded. "The years have changed me, Dalan. I have gone through Atlantis a vagabond and worse. I put my birthright behind me and forgot it. And I'm not the same man who went from Cyrena years ago," Elak said softly, laughing a little bitterly, and looking over the jetty's edge at his face reflected in the dark swell of the water, "Only a king may sit on the dragon throne. For me--it would be a jest. And a sorry one." "You fool!" the Druid whispered--and there was rage in the sibilant sound. "Blind, mad fool! Do you think the Druids would offer Cyrena to the wrong man? Blood of kings is in your veins, Elak. It is not yours to deny. You must obey." "Must?" The word was spoken lightly, yet Lycon felt a tenseness go through him, tightening his muscles. "Must?" Elak asked. "The decision is mine, Druid. By Mider! The throne of Cyrena means much to me. Therefore I shall not sit in it!" Dalan's toad face was gargoylish in the moonlight. He thrust his bald, glistening head forward, and his thick, stubby fingers twisted. "Now am I tempted to work magic on you, Elak," he said harshly. "I am no--" "I have given you my answer." The Druid hesitated. His somber eyes dwelt on Elak. Then, without a word, he turned and went lumbering off into the night. His footsteps died. Elak remained staring out at the harbor. His cheeks were gray, his mouth a tortured white line. And he whirled, abruptly, and looked at the hills of Poseidonia. But he did not see them. His gaze went beyond them, far and far, probing through all Atlantis to the kingdom of the north--Cyrena, and the dragon throne. _3. The Gates of Dream_ Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite Shall bear us company tonight, For we have reached the Oldest Land Wherein the powers of Darkness range. --Kipling. Elak's sleep that night was broken by dreams--flashing, disordered visions of many things. He stared up at the white moonlit ceiling of the apartment. And--it was changed. The familiar room was gone. Light still existed, but it was oddly changed--grayish and unreal. Unearthly planes and angles slipped past Elak, and in his ears a low humming grew. This changed to a high-pitched, droning whine, and died away at last. The mad planes reassembled themselves. In his dream Elak saw a mighty crag upthrust against cold stars--colossal against a background of jagged mountain peaks. Snow dappled them, but the darkness of the crag was unbroken. On its top was a tower, dwarfed by distance. A flood seemed to lift Elak and bear him swiftly forward. In the base of the crag, he saw, were great iron gates. And these parted and swung aside, yawning for him as he moved through. They shut silently behind him.