"Aye." Croft nodded. The thing was inevitable. He must speak--explain his mission to the people, give them some definite understanding of the situation and his motives. No matter how much he might begrudge the time involved in even so short a delay, the thing must be done. "Here?" he questioned. "Nay," said Zud, "the matter is arranged." Again Croft inclined his head and turned to lay his hand on Lakkon's shoulder much as he had done the morning Jason, Son of Jason was born. It was the first time the two men had met since the night he had sworn to carry the present matter through to the bitter end, and he sensed a mutual yearning question in the aged noble's eyes. "Father of Naia," he said, "this coming marks a step toward the goal to which both thee and Jason turn their hearts. Yet this sun shall make all plain." Then turning again to Zud, he followed toward the high priest's car, in which the prelate indicated that he was to ride. Jadgor and Lakkon entered their motur. The phalanx of guardsmen swung about. The trumpeters took the van. The harpists fell in before Zud and Jason. The Gayana--their arms filled with brilliant flowers--ranged themselves on either side, and lifted their voices in song. The procession moved off along the level floor of Zitra's pavements, through the welcoming throng, to pause after a time in the midst of a broad, open space. Croft recognized it with leaping pulses as the square in which he had been proclaimed as Zitu's Mouthpiece--saw that once more it held an elevated stage. Upon it he mounted with Zud and Jadgor and Lakkon, the men of the assembly--the harpists--the Gayana--over a carpet of the flowers they cast before his feet. His eyes swept over the faces of the concourse. His heart swelled oddly at the sight. This was Tamarizia--her people. This was Zitra--her citizens. These were the men and women of the nation he had taken a hand in saving from the nation to the north, in saving and making strong, and leading toward a greater progress, a wider knowledge--a broader individuality than they had ever known. These were the people of Naia's race. Of a sudden he stood before them--the picture of a strong man in his gorgeous harness. He lifted his hand. The throbbing of the harps--the liquid voices of the Gayana died. Croft spoke. To those lifted faces he told the story of all that had happened, the reason for his coming again to Zitra. To them he gave the substance of Zollaria's demands. A sound ran through them--deep, low-pitched--and unmistakable thing of amazement and resentment. It was as if the multitude groaned.