“Sun. English,” she repeated after me, then added, “How are you named, Wanderer?” “Humphrey,” I answered. “Hum-fe-ry!” she said as though she were learning the word, “and those?” “Bastin and Bickley,” I replied. Over these patronymics she shook her head; as yet they were too much for her. “How are you named, Sleeper?” I asked. “Yva,” she answered. “A beautiful name for one who is beautiful,” I declared with enthusiasm, of course always in the rich Orofenan dialect which by now I could talk well enough. She repeated the words once or twice, then of a sudden caught their meaning, for she smiled and even coloured, saying hastily with a wave of her hand towards the Ancient who stood at a distance between Bastin and Bickley, “My father, Oro; great man; great king; great god!” At this information I started, for it was startling to learn that here was the original Oro, who was still worshipped by the Orofenans, although of his actual existence they had known nothing for uncounted time. Also I was glad to learn that he was her father and not her old husband, for to me that would have been horrible, a desecration too deep for words. “How long did you sleep, Yva?” I asked, pointing towards the sepulchre in the cave. After a little thought she understood and shook her head hopelessly, then by an afterthought, she said, “Stars tell Oro to-night.” So Oro was an astronomer as well as a king and a god. I had guessed as much from those plates in the coffin which seemed to have stars engraved on them. At this point our conversation came to an end, for the Ancient himself approached, leaning on the arm of Bickley who was engaged in an animated argument with Bastin. “For Heaven’s sake!” said Bickley, “keep your theology to yourself at present. If you upset the old fellow and put him in a temper he may die.” “If a man tells me that he is a god it is my duty to tell him that he is a liar,” replied Bastin obstinately. “Which you did, Bastin, only fortunately he did not understand you. But for your own sake I advise you not to take liberties. He is not one, I think, with whom it is wise to trifle. I think he seems thirsty. Go and get some water from the rain pool, not from the lake.” Bastin departed and presently returned with an aluminum jug full of pure water and a glass. Bickley poured some of it into a glass and handed it to Yva who bent her head in thanks. Then she did a curious thing. Having first lifted the glass with both hands to the sky and held it so for a few seconds, she turned and with an obeisance poured a little of it on the ground before her father’s feet. A libation, thought I to myself, and evidently Bastin agreed with me, for I heard him mutter, “I believe she is making a heathen offering.”