Jain, Captain of the Workers, shook her head sorrowfully. In a gentle voice she said, "Our priestess has gone mad, O Mother. The rigors of the pilgrimage have been too much for her. What is the law? Death for her, as well as for this hairless Man-thing? Or, having taken herself a Man, must she become a breeding-mother?" But the Mother stayed her. There was a faraway look in her eyes; Meg knew that the aged leader of the Clan was remembering a pilgrimage made many, many years ago to the Place of the Gods. The Mother, Meg knew, had once looked upon the majestic figures of Jarg, Ibrim, Taamuz and Tedhi on their great, rocky promontory at Mount Rushmore and had seen, as Meg had seen, that the Gods were, in truth, Men like Daiv. A word from the Mother now.... The Mother spoke. There was infinite sadness in her voice. "It is the Law," she said, "that none shall strive to change the ways of the Clan. You, Meg, have ignored the Law. You and your mate will be given justice." And she turned away. A gasp spun Meg's gaze to Daiv. His face was crimson with an anger-look; great veins throbbed in his forehead. He roared, "Here, then, is the joyous welcome your Clan offers us, Golden One! Justice? What kind of justice may we expect from a doddering, thwarted old harridan--" "_Daiv!_" screamed Meg. But her cry broke too late. With one swift gesture Daiv had wrenched the sword from the hands of Lora. Now he tested its blade, swept Meg into the circle of his arms, and laughed at the startled clanswomen defiantly. "So you would judge a Man?" he taunted. "A Man of the Kirki tribe? Come, then, you filthy diggers of dirt and loveless scarecrows. Let your judgment be the matching of my steel against yours!" There was a tense moment of silence. Then anger, bitter as the fruit of the simmon tree, flamed in the voices of Meg's sisters. A score of Warriors sprang forward, swords drawn. At their flank advanced the Workers, hoes and adzes uplifted. Meg smiled piteously at Daiv and murmured a swift prayer to the Gods. It was grievous to die thus, before the blades of loved ones.... * * * * * And a faint, thin cry stayed them all! They turned to see, at the deserted southward gate, the torn and bleeding figure of a Warrior who, hair disheveled, face scarred and raw, hands and arms deep-scored with gory cicatrices, pulled herself within the Jinnia camp dragging behind her one sturdy leg and one blackened, withered stump. In that moment of dread wonder it did not even seem strange to the clanswomen that the first to reach the wounded Warrior's side should be the stranger, Daiv. But Daiv it was who raised her in his arms. The visitor's eyes were filmed with pain, horror, fatigue. They unveiled now, and an indomitable purpose shone through. In a husky voice she faltered, "It is too late ... to save me. Soon I will join ... my Clanswomen ... and the Gods. Save ... yourselves!" There was unbelievable gentleness in Daiv's voice.