Naturally, I was less interested in such myths than in facts touching upon my own predicament. I was curious as to all that had occurred since my rescue from the mountain ledge; and was particularly anxious to know the meaning of that strange scene with the white-bearded seer on my first day in Sobul. And to most of my questions I received an answer, although not always one that satisfied me. My rescue was explained simply enough: the Ibandru habitually roamed the mountains for miles around their valley, and a party of six had been going in search of a little blue stone which one of their sages had declared to exist upon the higher slopes, and the possession of which would mean happiness. With their trained eyes accustomed to scanning the far distances, they had observed what they at first took to be some peculiar animal crawling along a ledge; and, drawn closer by curiosity, had discovered that the supposed animal was human, and was in distress. Common humanity dictated that they come to the rescue, bear me to safety, and house me in an unoccupied cabin whose owner (to use the native phrase) had gone "beyond those mountains that no man crosses twice." Thus far I saw no reason to doubt the explanation; but when I mentioned the white-bearded tribesman I could see that I trod upon questionable ground. It was not only that Yasma hesitated before answering; it was that she replied with a nervous, uneasy air. She informed me--and this much was certainly true--that the old man was Hamul-Kammesh, the soothsayer, whose wisdom was held in high esteem; and she stated that, immediately following my arrival, he had been called upon to judge of the signs and omens. But what had he said? She refused to tell me. Or, rather, she told me with transparent dissimulation. She declared that he had prognosticated something of good, and something of evil; and her reluctant manner testified that the evil tipped the balance of the scales. But just what evil did he imagine my coming might do? And to whom would the damage be done? No matter how I pleaded and questioned, Yasma shook her head sadly, and refused to reply. Could it be that the prophecy concerned me in some vital way? that it would endanger me, or make my lot harder to bear? Yasma was still sphinx-like. "I cannot answer," she maintained, in response to all my entreaties. "I cannot." And biting her underlip, she remained resolutely silent. But I could not accept her refusal. "Why cannot you answer?" I insisted. "Surely, there is nothing to fear." "That you cannot know," she sighed, her lips compressed as though in suffering, and an unexplained sadness shining from her eyes. Then, seeing that I was about to return to the assault, she disarmed me by murmuring, resignedly, "Well, if I must tell you, I must. You see, it is not this prophecy alone. This only confirms another--another prophecy made years and years ago. And that first prediction was dark as a night-cloud."