"Nay," he cried, "not that Naia, daughter of Jadgor's sister, daughter of Lakkon--not that Naia, who was wed to Zitu's Mouthpiece within Atla of Bithur when the blue hordes of Mazzer captained by the brother of this same Kalamita, and other men of his nation, lapped like the waves of an unclean sea against Atla's walls. Not of such metal is her spirit. Tamarizians, send this messenger north from Mazhur; let him demand that Zollaria support or deny her woman agent's words." "Aye--aye," came other voices. Jadgor rose, his silver cuirass blazing. "Add to the message answer to Kalamita's foul threat, that if aught befalls Jason, Son of Jason--aye, or Naia, mother of Jason--ere parley is held on the matter, Tamarizia waits but the knowledge to unsheathe the sword." "Aye--aye," again a storm of voices answered his suggestion. "A vote--a vote!" someone began shouting. "Let Tamarizia's message be strong." In the end, once the turmoil excited by the Bithurian and Jadgor had in a measure subsided, a formal vote was taken, and Croft himself was empowered to draft the message entrusting it to one of the regular government couriers--men so employed for years and of trained endurance. Well satisfied, he went back to the palace, worked half the night in formulating it to his liking, interviewed the man who was to bear it, and watched his galley sail out of Zitra and turn north at dawn. And now Himyra and his work behind its red walls called him. He lost small time in answering its call. Once more his galley slipped forth from the massive sea-doors. Zitra sank into the Central Sea--or seemed to, slipping little by little beneath the sparkling waters with its shimmering milk white walls. Speed. He had used the word to Jadgor. And now he called upon the captain of the galley for it--speed to Himyra. And he promised himself speed on the task before him once he reached Aphur's ruddy city--such speed as never before, not even in the heat of his preparation against the Zollarian war, had he employed. For three days he chafed against the surge and plunge of the galley, the slither of each passing wave, until after dawn on the morn of the fourth, the mouth of the Na was reached. Eight days had been consumed on the journey--eight days wherein Naia of Aphur had lain in the room under Helmor's palace--their light, save for a few brief moments with each dawning, shut away from her purple eyes--growing ever darker and larger in the white mask of her face. * * * * *