“Yes, he died before we reached Keemar.” “I know not the meaning of the word. The ‘gift of tongues’ fails me here. Explain—dead.” Alan looked at him in amazement. Death was such a common word in the world; one met with it at every turn; it was strange that it should remain unknown to the Jovians with their wonderful “gift of tongues.” “His life has gone,” said Alan simply. “But life is eternal, my son.” “Surely you do not live for ever on Keemar?” asked Alan incredulously. “Ah, no. We do not live for ever on Keemar it is true—but our life is eternal.” It was impossible to explain—they had no knowledge of death—yet they, on their own showing, seemed to expect to leave Keemar at some time or other. Surely death alone could remove them? “I beg of you, do not go in there,” urged Alan, and he barred the door of the death chamber. “My son,” said the Jkak. “I must know all things in my country. If what you call ‘death’ has entered—then I beg you, acquaint me with it.” “But it is horrible—” “Let me meet it face to face—” “It is loathsome,” urged Alan. “I pray you, do not go inside.” The Jkak made no reply, but raised his right hand high above his head—palm outwards, and even as he did so, Waz-Y-Kjesta and his suite bent low on one knee. “The sign of the Jkak,” said the Waz. “His wishes must be honoured, his commands obeyed.” Alan moved away from the door, his head bowed in acquiescence, and Marlinok turned the handle of the door, and stepped back to allow the Jkak to enter. There was a tense silence for a moment, then from the darkened chamber came a startled cry, a cry full of poignant horror, and with an ashen face the Jkak appeared at the door. “I have seen Death,” said he. “I have seen the horrors of sin. Death, until now, has never entered Keemar. Death brings its own punishment. Death brings horrors and adversity. Death! Oh Great, White Glory, Tower of Help, Mitzor of our Fathers—I have seen Death in its hideousness. Mitzor the Mighty, grant preservation to thy people—grant help to thy faithful.” Persoph the Jkak was trembling. His face was white, his hand was shaking as he pointed to the door. “What will you do with—with—that?” he asked, almost inaudibly. Alan answered him. “Bury him, poor chap.” “Bury?” “Yes. Do you not dig graves for your dead?” “We have no dead, my son. I pray Mitzor, that the entrance of this—soul—may not bring disaster on our land. But how do you bury?” Alan explained, and as he finished the Jkak’s face was more horror-stricken than before. “Nay, my son, bury you cannot. That would be impossible here.” He turned to the Waz. “Does not the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata take place within eight Kymos?” “Yes, my Jkak,” answered Y-Kjesta. “Ak-Marn sent cards for all to attend it. It will be the biggest feast I have ever known. His seed is mighty, his seed is great. Five thousand and ten cards have been issued, and yet five thousand and more still clamour for admittance.”