The morning was far advanced—noon, I judged by the sun. There wasn’t a soul in sight, just a broad expanse of calm and peace throbbing beneath a scorching sun, and my enchanting forest of vermilion flickered, sultry, seemingly hundreds of miles away. I decided to go to the city. It was a long tramp, but I rested frequently in cool green parks, shaded by giant trees. Houses at first were few, quaintly picturesque, surrounded with beautiful gardens and orchards. Soon this lovely rural simplicity gave way to broad avenues lined with costly residences, but after awhile, though the uniformed elegance was very impressive, I wearied of the monotonous similarity of the odd domed buildings, glistening with a greenish lustre. It was this sea lustre which caused Sheldon to exclaim, when beholding the palace of Centauri, “A palace of crystal!” Houses were not crushed together as seen in our cities. Each building was centered in a spacious square and all surrounded with high, solid walls. Curious, I examined this wall. The surface was smooth, shiny and cold. I decided the foundation was of stone veneered with a combination of—er——. A short distance ahead a gentleman stepped from one of the gardens and I hastened to join him. He had no objection to my company; the Centaurians are a genial, social race. It was not long, however, before he discovered I was “one of the four strangers who had crossed,” etc., and he hung like a burr. He was full of information, tedious with lengthy explanations—he went clear around the city to reach a point just across the street, and I watched for a chance to lose him, deciding finally to excuse myself and streak up another avenue, when suddenly he grasped my arm, murmuring: “The hour of worship,” and rushed me ahead to avoid the people trooping from houses and gardens who swelled the great throng that gradually swooped upon us. In the crush I lost my friend, but could see him peering for me in all directions and cheerfully eluded him. I was forced along, wondering at the destination of this dense, silent throng, all so hurried and earnest, traveling with settled purpose in one direction. Women, vividly beautiful with health; men, muscular, powerful in their strength; children, fresh with a cherubic loveliness; a fascinating crowd. Suddenly loud shouts of warning rang clear on the sultry air, I heard the clattering of horses’ hoofs upon the hard pavement: the crowd parted with shrill cheers and a chariot drawn by plunging white horses flew by. A woman stood erect, holding with one hand the reins guiding the flying steeds, the other was pointed to the heavens. A woman tall, straight, a goddess with dark tresses floating in the breeze. “Alpha Centauri!” I gasped. “Aye, Alpha Centauri,” the man next to me answered. “Priestess of the Sun!” cried a second. “The bride of Knowledge, whose wedding gift was divinity,” murmured a third. And it is all very pretty, I thought, and what a poetical, sentimental race these people are.