The wholly open arch admitted them into a fairly spacious interior, cool with the abiding temperature of thick masonry. There was no rubbish on the floor. Waldo, relieved to escape the blistering glare outside, seated himself on a block of stone midway between the door and the inner partition-wall, resting his gun-butt on the floor. For the moment he was blinded by the change from the insistent brilliance of the desert morning to the blurred gray light of the interior. When his sight cleared he looked about and remarked, opposite the door, the ragged hole which laid open the desecrated mausoleum. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he was so startled that he stood up. It seemed to him that from its four corners the room swarmed with naked children. To his inexperienced conjecture they seemed about two years old, but they moved with the assurance of boys of eight or ten. “Whose are these children?” he exclaimed. “Mine,” she said. “All yours?” he protested. “All mine,” she replied, a curious suppressed boisterousness in her demeanor. “But there are twenty of them,” he cried. “You count badly in the dark,” she told him. “There are fewer.” “There certainly are a dozen,” he maintained, spinning round as they danced and scampered about. “The Free-people have large families,” she said. “But they are all of one age,” Waldo exclaimed, his tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. She laughed, an unpleasant, mocking laugh, clapping her hands. She was between him and the doorway, and as most of the light came from it he could not see her lips. “Is not that like a man! No woman would have made that mistake.” Waldo was confuted and sat down again. The children circulated around him, chattering, laughing, giggling, snickering, making noises indicative of glee. “Please get me something cool to drink,” said Waldo, and his tongue was not only dry but big in his mouth. “We shall have to drink shortly,” she said, “but it will be warm.” Waldo began to feel uneasy. The children pranced around him, jabbering strange, guttural noises, licking their lips, pointing at him, their eyes fixed on him, with now and then a glance at their mother. “Where is the water?” The woman stood silent, her arms hanging at her sides, and it seemed to Waldo she was shorter than she had been. “Where is the water?” he repeated. “Patience, patience,” she growled, and came a step near to him. The sunlight struck upon her back and made a sort of halo about her hips. She seemed still shorter than before. There was a something furtive in her bearing, and the little ones sniggered evilly.