Verrill said, "If a man found the bones of Skanderbek, he could build a shrine there for the gods of death. Men serve most what they fear most." "Which of us fears death?" the priest challenged. "We are fighting-men." "My patients act otherwise," Verrill blandly countered. Then: "Skanderbek had no wings. His bones can not be far from here. The bones of Skanderbek will give a light like a glow-worm or a fire-fly. Wherever they are lying, they will be easily recognized. Any herdsman would know if he found them." Verrill was gambling on the probability that Skanderbek, leading a group of Terrestrians to safety, had exposed himself overmuch to the deadly radioactivity, more so than any of those he led. Whether there had been sufficient to make his bones radioactive until they would glow, either then or now, was an open question. But Kwangtan was of the line of priests who create and maintain a tradition: the blend of knowledge and falsehood that keeps their craft alive and their privilege secure. Kwangtan would surely have enough of that blend to set him wondering, and in his own interests. It was time to leave; and, nodding contentedly, Verrill left, rightly assured that the old devil would lose no time hunting the bones of Skanderbek, lest someone else find them first and set up a rival shrine. He would have to hunt by night, and alone. The nights were cold, and the trails dangerous. A few nights later, Verrill went out, high on the rimrock, to lurk in a perilous perch overhanging the shrine. He saw Kwangtan momentarily outlined by the light that came from the grotto. The priest was making for the spring, and then climbing higher. Apparently he was going out by a secret way, for a concealed purpose. Well satisfied, Verrill climbed down out of the bitter cold wind which whined eternally about the limestone buttresses. Unobserved, he went down again into the shelter of the ledge, and to the house where Falana was asleep. She no more perceived his return than she had his departure. * * * * * Before many days had passed, Verrill was busily probing for bullets, suturing sword slashes, and setting bones. When the fighting-men he had salvaged were well enough to be about and looking for more trouble, Ardelan confessed that he had entirely revised his notions on doctors. And that gave Verrill his chance to say, "I'll go along the next time there's a raid. I could have saved that one who died on the way." Ardelan shook his head. "There is a personal enemy of yours among our neighbors. I can't take any chance of your being killed or captured." "You're making a priest of me!" Verrill said, mockingly. "Living on the fat of the land, and taking none of the risks." "You've made that for yourself," Ardelan retorted. "And speaking of priests, you'll have one for a patient." "How's that?" "Kwangtan is coughing a lot. He's failing rapidly. We had always thought he would live forever."