"No doubt," Abthar admitted, in matter-of-fact tones. And then, with a gesture toward the southern peak, "Yulada has secrets not for every man's understanding." For an instant he paused, in contemplation of the statue-like figure; then quickly continued, "Now here, my friend, is the thing to remember. Take the migration from which we are just returning. Do not imagine that we make such a pilgrimage only once in a lifetime. Every autumn, when the birds fly south, we follow in their wake; and every spring we return with the northward-winging flocks." "Every autumn--and every spring!" I gasped, in dismay, for Abthar had confirmed my most dismal surmises. "Yes, every autumn and every spring. How would you feel, my friend, with a wife that left you five months or six every year? How do you think your wife would feel when she had to leave?" "But would she have to leave? Why would she? After we were married, would she not be willing to stay here?" "She might be willing--but would she be able?" asked Abthar, pointedly. "This is no matter of choice; it is a law of her nature. It is a law of the nature of all Ibandru to go every autumn the way of the southward-speeding birds. Could you ask the sap to stop flowing from the roots of the awakening tree in April? Could you ask the fountains not to pour down from the peaks when spring thaws the snow? Then ask one of us Ibandru to linger in Sobul when the frosty days have come and the last November leaf flutters earthward." Abthar's words bewildered me utterly, as all reference to the flight of the Ibandru had bewildered me before. But I did not hesitate to admit my perplexity. "Your explanation runs contrary to all human experience," I argued. "During my studies and travels, I have heard of many races of men who differed much in habits and looks; but all were moved by the same impulses, the same natural laws. You Ibandru alone seem different. You disappear and reappear like phantoms, and claim to do so because of an instinct never found in the natural world." My companion sat staring at me quizzically. There was just a little of surprise in his manner, just a little of good-natured indulgence, and something of the smiling tolerance which one reserves for the well-meaning and simple-minded. "In spite of your seeming knowledge, my friend," he remarked at length, "I see that you are really quite childish in your views. You are mistaken in believing that we Ibandru do not follow natural laws. We are guided not by an instinct unknown in the great world around us, but by one that rules the lives of countless living things: the birds in the air and the fishes in the streams, and even, if I am to believe the tales I have heard, is found among certain furry animals in the wide waters and at times among swarms of butterflies." "But if you feel the same urge as these creatures, then why should only you out of all men feel it?"