If we won, if we were able to pass from this place, could she live in our world? A product of these caverns with their atmosphere and light that seemed in some subtle way to be both food and drink--how would she react to the unfamiliar foods and air and light of outer earth? Further, here so far as I was able to discover, there were no malignant bacilli--what immunity could Lakla have then to those microscopic evils without, which only long ages of sickness and death have bought for us a modicum of protection? I began to be oppressed. Surely they had been long enough by themselves. I went down the path. I heard Larry. "It's a green land, _mavourneen_. And the sea rocks and dimples around it--blue as the heavens, green as the isle itself, and foam horses toss their white manes, and the great clean winds blow over it, and the sun shines down on it like your eyes, _acushla_--" "And are you a king of Ireland, Larry darlin'?" Thus Lakla-- But enough! At last we turned to go--and around the corner of the path I caught another glimpse of what I have called the lake of jewels. I pointed to it. "Those are lovely flowers, Lakla," I said. "I have never seen anything like them in the place from whence we come." She followed my pointing finger--laughed. "Come," she said, "let me show you them." She ran down an intersecting way, we following; came out of it upon a little ledge close to the brink, three feet or more I suppose about it. The Golden Girl's voice rang out in a high-pitched, tremulous, throbbing call. The lake of jewels stirred as though a breeze had passed over it; stirred, shook, and then began to move swiftly, a shimmering torrent of shining flowers down upon us! She called again, the movement became more rapid; the gem blooms streamed closer--closer, wavering, shifting, winding--at our very feet. Above them hovered a little radiant mist. The Golden Girl leaned over; called softly, and up from the sparkling mass shot a green vine whose heads were five flowers of flaming ruby--shot up, flew into her hand and coiled about the white arm, its quintette of lambent blossoms--regarding us! It was the thing Lakla had called the _Yekta_; that with which she had threatened the priestess; the thing that carried the dreadful death--and the Golden Girl was handling it like a rose! Larry swore--I looked at the thing more closely. It was a hydroid, a development of that strange animal-vegetable that, sometimes almost microscopic, waves in the sea depths like a cluster of flowers paralyzing its prey with the mysterious force that dwells in its blossom heads![2] "Put it down, Lakla," the distress in O'Keefe's voice was deep. Lakla laughed mischievously, caught the real fear for her in his eyes; opened her hand, gave another faint call--and back it flew to its fellows. "Why, it wouldn't hurt me, Larry!" she expostulated. "They know me!" "Put it down!" he repeated hoarsely.