And Saunders was not at all deceived how he stood with the clientele. Of one thing I was positive, Saxe., dear old Saxe. was equal to his surroundings. His domineering intellect commanded respect and had no superior. How I was regarded by these wise men did not concern me. They were too advanced to meet my views and interested me as little as I did them. * * * * * Before returning to Centur I thoroughly explored the strange mountain island. Declining to descend in the pulley coaches, which darted down the mountain side at regular intervals, I made my way to a narrow foot path hewed in the rocks by centuries of travel. I was accompanied part of the way by one of the Professors, who, probably anxious to be rid of me, suddenly decided I didn’t interest him nohow and with remarkable speed returned to the summit. I was glad the old boy and his prosy talk were out of the way, as both had frequently made me lose my footing, and having reached a point where the path widened and travel was made easier by natural steps formed in the cliffs I was soon upon level ground, a broad open road about fifty feet wide circling the base of the mountain like a racetrack and enclosed with a high fortress-like wall. Perched haphazardly among the cliffs were odd-looking, mound-shaped stone huts, painted in all the soft tints of the rainbow. The effect was ridiculously like a huge toy, a great cone of giant marbles. I walked entirely around the mountain before encountering anything alive and had decided to make a second trip when just ahead, advancing rapidly, I spied the figure of a woman; tall, lithe, graceful. I hastened forward, then stopped, gasped and bared my head before the lovely child, for she was little more. She stopped also and gazed at me with frank, curious eyes, a faint smile curved the perfect mouth, the face was bewitching in its undeveloped, innocent beauty. She held out her hand in welcome. “Your name?” she asked. “With pleasure,” I responded, “and yours?” “Abella,” she answered simply. “But I was sure you were ‘The Virgillius.’ I never heard of With-pleasure, before.” She laughed merrily, and beneath the searching hazel eyes my face flushed. “I am Virgillius,” I hastened to inform her. “Virgillius Salucci.” “‘The Virgillius!’” she cried in triumph. “I knew I could not be mistaken. Ah,” she sighed ecstatically, “‘The Virgillius,’ he who braved the dead North, that he might see the women of Centauri and impel them to revive the lost art.” This was one way of putting it, but not exactly what I crossed the Pole for. I gazed with bold admiration at the beautiful young woman. She seemed unaware of my warm glances, and as she took my arm, smilingly inviting me to go with her, no mock modest blush marred the delicate transparency of her skin. The women of Centauri do not blush—they have nothing to blush for.