“Stand equally with me,” exclaimed Yermah, assisting Orondo to rise and embracing him. “A solemn covenant binds thee to that task. Consult only thine own pleasure and convenience.” Then, after a pause, “I shall miss thy strong, right hand, thy faithful heart and welcome presence here.” The dawn, bright from the Orient couch, had chased away the stars, and as Yermah spoke a golden ring came slowly above the horizon. The bells in the temples and Observatory chimed inspiringly. Nature was astir all about them, while the entire city was at devotion. With bared heads both men turned their pale faces toward the east. Yermah’s arm lay affectionately on Orondo’s shoulder. “Homage to Thee who risest above the horizon,” said the Dorado, reverently. “I come near to Thee. Thou openest the gates of another day.” “Om-ah!” responded Orondo, who continued: “Great Illuminator out of the golden, place thyself as a protector behind me. I open to thee.” “Om-ah!” said Yermah, as they both stretched out their arms and bowed three times to the now fully risen sun. * * * * * It was the day following Orondo’s visit, and Kerœcia was disturbed, downcast and depressed. For the first time since her entrance to Tlamco she longed for the mountain fastnesses of the Monbas. She felt stifled. She wanted air, breath, room. A sense of utter loneliness was upon her. Again she could have cried bitter tears for Orondo. It was agony to her soul to know that she had hurt him. The surprise of it—the pity of it! The reflex action of her hours of unalloyed pleasure was full upon her. So she stood under the moonless sky, while the clouds scurried overhead in a pell-mell race with the incoming fog. She was chilled at heart, and instinctively sought a sheltered nook, where she felt she could be absolutely alone. Kerœcia remained for some time motionless, frowning into vacancy, so preoccupied that she did not notice a tiny moon-shaped boat of paper zigzagging its way down the narrow waterway at her feet. It might have passed her had not the splash of a pebble thrown a spray of water on her skirts. Glancing quickly about her, she advanced toward the wavering craft in time to rescue a red velvet rose floating loosely in a cluster of feathery ferns. She tucked the flower and its greenery into her corsage and made them fast, but not before she had inhaled their fragrance and noticed their beauty. Then she examined the neatly folded parchment. Across the prow was the word “Yermah.” At the sight of his name, happiness surged through every avenue of sensibility like rare old wine. Kerœcia’s face was all tenderness as she pressed her lips to the writing. It was a lingering, cooing movement, such as women who love employ.