“I suppose so,” reluctantly assented Regan. “If by any means we could attach a rope to that central peak of rock!” said Isabella. She was always so intensely interested in anything that Regan wished to do! In a few minutes Regan sprang to his feet. “Isabella, I have thought how I can get there!” he said. “How?” we asked in a breath. “With ropes and kites!” he replied. Then for weeks we busied ourselves in making heavy vine cables and strong, light cords. We made, also, with the utmost pains to have them exactly alike, two huge bark kites. How like child’s play it seemed, I thought, as with diligence, day after day, we devoted our whole time to this petty work. But why not play? What better were we than children in this land where we looked vainly for any sign of the existence of those people who had lighted the fire on the circle of stones? I wondered if Regan had not kindled that fire to make us believe that he was king of something! No; I could not think so. I would have been glad to doubt him, but I could not. One who lived daily where he was must believe in him whether he would or not. All was prepared. The heavy cables wound the huge basket, strung to slide on them. The light cords were attached to the kites, the heavy ones to fly them were ready. When a strong wind blew directly toward the isle we started them. The idea was to sail them above and beyond the peak. Thus they would carry the unbroken cord around the lava column; by cutting the kite strings the kites would fall, dropping the cord where we could draw it so as to bring, instead of its lightness, the great vine cables about the peak, and then we could cross with the basket. Having once drawn ourselves to the isle we could make a permanent basket ferry. If the cables broke, even if the little cord tangled, our work must be done over again. “As if to please the king,” Isabella said, the night breeze, strong and straight, blew to the isle. I looked at that vine-veiled bunch of chaotic, volcanic collection; almost it seemed like some primeval mammoth of the lost ages. How mysterious a common thing becomes when we are hindered from reaching it! But for that fathomless, seething sea we had never desired to go to that particular point. Something like horror was in my heart as we stood gazing at the flights of the kites. Father Renaudin and Isabella were to remain on shore. There were so few of us if anything should happen. The kites flew in a gray evening twilight. A black storm slept on the near horizon; around us all things were darkening. How beautiful they were—the kites! Then I stopped my thoughts angrily. Had I, for lack of greater things to watch, reached a stage where I was interested in the flight of a kite, I who had managed great white-sailed fleets of Earth, I who had selected their silken wares, sold their immense cargoes, I, Roy Lee? I could not shake it off—the feeling that it was of the vastest importance that the kites sail right.