Arrack was dragged along, pushed inside the gate, and then left—to learn how to fend for himself in that gloomy place. Carefully was Kulmervan placed upon a huge pedestal in the hall. His face had lost its youthful candour, its beauty of outline and its peace. The visage seen through the glass, was the face of an old man worn with sin; evil and sinister. Alan shuddered as he turned away from the coarsened form. The state of serquor as known by the Keemarnians was a very dreadful thing. Struck down in life, the victims assumed a trance-like form from which they never recovered. Real death the Jovians knew not; a far happier parting was permitted them. As in a dream a voice told the sleeper that his time had come—that so many more Kymos would pass before he would have to bid his world good-bye. Then in the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata his body and soul were rendered astral, and in a cloud of smoke the favoured one disappeared from sight, and entered into dwelling with his God. It was a wonderful end; there could be no great sadness at such a departure; no corruption was to be the lot of the departing Jovian—he was just carried into glory. But those poor souls that suffered serquor remained in their comatose condition. Alive yet dead! Dead yet alive! Useless to themselves, and of use to no one! No wonder it was the one dreaded thing in this land of all good. There were but fifty bodies in the condition of serquor on the whole of Keemar, and most of them had been there for many ages. None could remember some of them as creatures full of life; their names were written on tablets and placed above them—their only connection with the generation of the present. In a small, underground chapel in the Temple at Hoormoori were these poor ones kept. Niches, cushion-lined were made in the walls, and in these the victims were laid. There they would remain until Jupiter itself returned to its first void, and emptied its population into the lap of Heaven. “I beg you stay not long here, my Lord,” said the Waz to Alan. “’Tis an evil place, and I would fain hurry and leave it far behind me”. “Nay, my Waz. Stay until the Kymo rises full in the Heavens—’tis but a short time now, and then I shall be ready to accompany you”. There were no separate degrees of punishment in the Hall of Sorrows. The real punishment lay in its awful loneliness. The Keemarnians who were there were paying dearly for their faults. Utter loneliness—comfortless—cheerless—it was desolation personified. Those were the first impressions that Alan received. Food was let down from the air at certain intervals. There was no division, and only just sufficient to go round. It was a question of first come, first served, and the man who appeared last received little if any of his portion. No lighting was arranged in the place, and as it was near the Pole, half their time was spent in total blackness. There was no warmth; it was cold and draughty; no privacy; no comfort.