How passing wonderful it is that I should be enabled to send another message to the Earth, and still more wonderful, wonderful out of all whooping, that I should be writing it not as sovereign of an unsuspected planet but as a humble member of the human hive on Earth itself, here in this mean Welsh sea-side inn! As to my former missive which I dispatched to my present abode through d'Aragno's kind offices some two years ago, I have, of course, no notion as to its final fate. That it really did reach the sphere of its destination I am convinced; but whether it is still lying unheeded on some rolling steppe or sterile mountain range; or whether it has been ascertained, deciphered, discussed, nay even printed, I am wholly in the dark.[1] Not that I seek to vex my mind in this matter. Nevertheless, it amuses me to assume that my former letter from Meleager has been duly found, debated and published, even though such assumption likewise includes the theory that its veracity is discredited by all who have cared to study its contents. Are we not assured in The Book that one arising specially from the dead and scorched with the flames of hell will not arouse belief in the living man? And if the mission of Dives to his careless brethren be a predestined failure, what chance of credence can possibly await such a message in manuscript from Meleager? Leaving these barren speculations, I intend to resume the tale of my adventures at the point where I halted--namely, on the eve of my entrusting my scroll to the custody of the Meleagrian councillor. [Footnote 1: This was obviously written before the interview described in a later chapter.--C.W.] * * * * *