The organ thundered. Voices rang in a mighty pæan of praise. Then silence! Misrath came forward and offered prayers to Mitzor—prayers of offering, prayers of supplication. A mighty wreath of freshly cut flowers was placed upon the altar. It was to be a burnt offering, and as the smoke of the sacrifice arose on the air, the white curtains were drawn around the figure of Ak-Marn and he was hidden from view. Then singing rent the air; the acolytes incensed the throne, until it was entirely covered by the perfumed smoke, covered like a pall. Alan watched in wonder. The grandeur of the prayers, the singing, the mystic curtains drawn around Ak-Marn appalled him. Misrath’s voice rose above the music. “Children of Keemar,” he intoned. “One more brother has been caught by the mantle of Mitzor, and has left this world for ever. He has gone to Glory, gone to Happiness—gone to Mitzor Himself. Peace be unto his house. Peace be unto his wife. Peace be unto his seed for ever. We bid him—farewell.” There was a great silence. The censers were stilled. Gradually the smoke of the incense cleared away from the marble throne, now gleaming in the rising rays of the Kymo. Misrath touched the cords of the enveloping curtain, and drew them back. The little white throne was empty! Ak-Marn had returned to the bosom of his Creator! But stay! On the floor, as if shed in the hurried flight of its owner, lay the bridal robe of Ak-Marn. The High Priest raised it, blessed it, sprinkled it with the waters of purity, and Ak-Marn’s wife received it in her arms. Then the mighty congregation rose and sang one last song of praise, and at the end, quietly left the building. And the last view Alan had of Ak-Marn’s wife was of a solitary figure, dressed like a bride, clasping the little white throne that was the last resting place of her loved one. “I don’t understand,” whispered Mavis hoarsely, as they were being driven back to their home. “My dear, he is dead,” said Sir John. “Dead? If that is Death, then it is something to welcome and not to dread,” she answered softly. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “What a wonderful Sacrament! Death that is no sorrow—only a parting for a little while, and then—reunion.” She clasped her husband’s hand. “Belovèd,” she murmured, “if Death comes to us like that, then can we have no real sorrow any more. Its shadow cannot cause us pain or grief. What do you think, Alan?”