We turned, following her gaze. A hundred feet on high, stretching nearly across the gorge, an incredible curtain was flung. Over its folds was movement--arms of spinning globes that thrust forth like paws and down upon which leaped pyramid upon pyramid stiffening as they clung like bristling spikes of hair; great bars of clicking cubes that threw themselves from the shuttering--shook and withdrew. The curtain was a ferment--shifting, mercurial; it throbbed with desire, palpitated with eagerness. “Not enough!” murmured Norhala. Her lips parted; from them came another trumpeting--tyrannic, arrogant and clangorous. Under it the curtaining writhed--out from it spurted thin cascades of cubes. They swarmed up into tall pillars that shook and swayed and gyrated. With blinding flash upon flash the sapphire incandescences struck forth at their feet. A score of flaming columned shapes leaped up and curved in meteor flight over the tumultuous curtain. Streaming with violet fires they shot back to the valley of the City. “Hai!” shouted Norhala as they flew. “Hai!” Up darted her arms; the starry galaxies of her eyes danced madly, shot forth visible rays. The mighty curtain of the Metal Things pulsed and throbbed; its units interweaving--block and globe and pyramid of which it was woven, each seeming to strain at leash. “Come!” cried Norhala--and led the way through the portal. Close behind her we pressed. I stumbled, nearly fell, over a brown-faced, leather-cuirassed body that lay half over, legs barring the threshold. Contemptuously Norhala stepped over it. We were within that chamber of the pool. About it lay a fair dozen of the armored men. Ruth's defense, I thought with a grim delight, had been most excellent--those who had taken her and Ventnor had not done so without paying full toll. A violet flashing drew my eyes away. Close to the pool wherein we had first seen the white miracle of Norhala's body, two immense, purple fired stars blazed. Between them, like a suppliant cast from black iron, was Yuruk. Poised upon their nether tips the stars guarded him. Head touching his knees, eyes hidden within his folded arms, the black eunuch crouched. “Yuruk!” There was an unearthly mercilessness in Norhala's voice. The eunuch raised his head; slowly, fearfully. “Goddess!” he whispered. “Goddess! Mercy!” “I saved him,” she turned to us, “for you to slay. He it was who brought those who took the maid who was mine and the helpless one she loved. Slay him.” Drake understood--his hand twitched down to his pistol, drew it. He leveled the gun at the black eunuch. Yuruk saw it--shrieked and cowered. Norhala laughed--sweetly, ruthlessly. “He dies before the stroke falls,” she said. “He dies doubly therefore--and that is well.” Drake slowly lowered the automatic; turned to me. “I can't,” he said. “I can't--do it--”