“Worshiper of Destiny, worship God!” But at the sound of the voice Regan was cold with awe; it was but the voice, more beautiful, of his earthly friend, that feeble, maimed, disappointed, dying old man, who only of all the Earth had found Regan to be most kind, most true. That one who had died stood here now, a thing to reverence, not asking aid. But Regan remembered him still as a friend, forgot not those promises made on Earth, called on the man although he beheld the angel: “Gregg Dempster, it is our star now! We both are here! You receive the reward of your long labor, the fruition of your abiding faith! I stood beside you until you came here! Let me go back to Earth!” “Leave your star! It is your kingdom! It shall be yet more lovely and more pleasant!” “The beauty torments me! Let me go to Earth! The woman I love is there! Her name is Rondah!” “Yes, her name was Rondah!” said the voice of his friend once more. “How do you hope to return, Regan?” “There was a hermit, blind, feeble, dying. I was his friend. There is an angel, powerful, kind—he will be my friend!” answered Regan. “You, who are like a God, can create!” “Oh! torturing mortal, cease! Man of earth, I cannot create! If only I could!” “Yet a higher Power!” whispered Regan. “If there were a God, it would be like this! Is there then something still withheld that an angel longs for?” he asked. “In this star, yes—not in the later heavens! On Earth I prayed for another life; now I am living it! I can only govern something already created!” “Harness a satellite!” said Regan. “What if I unbalance the poising of the universe, bring suns and stars clashing into chaos?” “Still I must go! I can see her before they fall!” “Regan, think! No more should Rondah be a fair young girl! Those earthly faces have changed! They are dead, some of those on Earth!” “Rondah is not dead!” “She may be old, bent, wrinkled, uncomely!” “For all that I must go back! She is my love! Do you know what I know? She was never beautiful! Her brown eyes were heavy with fatigue, her pale face almost always dull, her hair coarse, her gnarled hands, even then, marred by toil from which she must not rest! Now, she is old, cheerless and broken-hearted! She thinks me dead! I doubt if she can smile! Poverty has followed her all her life! Care has weighed upon her! Loneliness has dwarfed her intellect! Ignorance has kept her very silent! “Once, when I was a desperate, ragged vagabond, she came to my side and whispered: ‘Do not be utterly discouraged, Regan! You are different from the others, greater than those who despise you!’ Later, when all men shunned me, when they complained that my name disgraced their country, she said: ‘Regan, so long as I live you have always a friend! I am poor, but I am one in the world!’ Now, I want her here to share my throne! I want her here that I may give her a world!”