“I like the touch of your lips, Larry,” she whispered. “They warm me here”⁠—she pressed her heart again⁠—“and they send little sparkles of light through me.” Her brows tilted perplexedly, accenting the nuance of diablerie, delicate and fascinating, that they cast upon the flower face.

“Do you?” whispered the O’Keefe fervently. “Do you, Lakla?” He bent toward her. She caught the amused glance of Rador; drew herself aside half-haughtily.

“Rador,” she said, “is it not time that you and the strong one, Olaf, were setting forth?”

“Truly it is, handmaiden,” he answered respectfully enough⁠—yet with a current of laughter under his words. “But as you know the strong one, Olaf, wished to see his friends here before we were gone⁠—and he comes even now,” he added, glancing down the pathway, along which came striding the Norseman.