It is a very difficult language to speak, and as a written language, would be practically impossible. For example, there is their word _gu- e-ho_, for which Orthis and I discovered twenty-seven separate and distinct meanings, and that there are others I have little or no doubt. Their speech is more aptly described as song, the meaning of each syllable being governed by the note in which it is sung. They speak in five notes, which we may describe as A, B, C, D and E. _Gu_ sung in A means something radically different from _gu_ sung in E, and again if _gu_ is sung in A, followed by _e_ in G, it means something other than if _gu_ had been sung in D followed by _e_ in A. Fortunately for us, there are no words of over three syllables, and most of them consist of only one or two, or we should have been entirely lost. The resulting speech, however, is extremely beautiful, and Orthis used to say that if he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself living constantly in grand opera. The chief’s name, as we learned, was Ga-va-go; the name of the tribe or village was No-vans, while the race to which they belonged was known as Va-gas. When I felt that I had mastered the language sufficiently well to make myself at least partially understood, I asked to speak to Ga-va- go, and shortly thereafter, I was taken to him. “You have learned our speech?” he asked. I nodded in the affirmative. “I have,” I said, “and I have come to ask why we are held captives and what you intend to do with us. We did not come to seek a quarrel with you. We wish only to be friends, and to be allowed to go our way in peace.” “What manner of creature are you,” he asked, “and where do you come from?” I asked him if he had ever heard of the Sun or the stars or the other planets or any worlds outside his own, and he replied that he had not, and that there were no such things. “But there are, Ga-va-go,” I said, “and I and my companion are from another world, far, far outside your own. An accident brought us here. Give us back our weapons, and let us go.” He shook his head negatively. “Where you come from, do you eat one another?” he asked. “No,” I replied, “we do not.” “Why?” he asked, and I saw his eyes narrow as he awaited my reply. Was it mental telepathy or just luck that put the right answer in my mouth, for somehow, intuitively, I seemed to grasp what was in the creature’s mind. “Our flesh is poison,” I said, “those who eat it die.” He looked at me then for a long time, with an expression upon his face which I could not interpret. It may have been that he doubted my word, or again, it may have been that my reply confirmed his suspicion, I do not know; but presently he asked me another question. “Are there many like you in the land where you live?” “Millions upon millions,” I replied. “And what do they eat?” “They eat fruits and vegetables and the flesh of animals,” I answered. “What animals?” he asked.