“Yolara”⁠—her voice was low⁠—“of no use is it to question me. I am but the messenger of the Silent Ones. And one thing only am I bidden to ask you⁠—do you deliver to me the three strangers?”

Lugur was on his feet; eagerness, sardonic delight, sinister anticipation thrilling from him⁠—and my same glance showed Marakinoff, crouched, biting his fingernails, glaring at the Golden Girl.

“No!” Yolara spat the word. “No! Now by Thanaroa and by the Shining One, no!” Her eyes blazed, her nostrils were wide, in her fair throat a little pulse beat angrily. “You, Lakla⁠—take you my message to the Silent Ones. Say to them that I keep this man”⁠—she pointed to Larry⁠—“because he is mine. Say to them that I keep the yellow-haired one and him”⁠—she pointed to me⁠—“because it pleases me.