The husband got up to meet his wife and their guest.  He was clothed in white.  He had a beardless face, with breve and poigns.  His skin, on face and body alike, was so white, fresh, and soft, that it scarcely looked skin at all—­it rather resembled a new kind of pure, snowy flesh, extending right down to his bones.  It had nothing in common with the artificially whitened skin of an over-civilised woman.  Its whiteness and delicacy aroused no voluptuous thoughts; it was obviously the manifestation of a cold and almost cruel chastity of nature.  His hair, which fell to the nape of his neck, also was white; but again, from vigour, not decay.  His eyes were black, quiet and fathomless.  He was still a young man, but so stern were his features that he had the appearance of a lawgiver, and this in spite of their great beauty and harmony.

His magn and Joiwind’s intertwined for a single moment and Maskull saw his face soften with love, while she looked exultant.  She put him in her husband’s arms with gentle force, and stood back, gazing and smiling.  Maskull felt rather embarrassed at being embraced by a man, but submitted to it; a sense of cool, pleasant languor passed through him in the act.

“The stranger is red-blooded, then?”

He was startled by Panawe’s speaking in English, and the voice too was extraordinary.  It was absolutely tranquil, but its tranquillity seemed in a curious fashion to be an illusion, proceeding from a rapidity of thoughts and feelings so great that their motion could not be detected.  How this could be, he did not know.

“How do you come to speak in a tongue you have never heard before?” demanded Maskull.

“Thought is a rich, complex thing.  I can’t say if I am really speaking your tongue by instinct, or if you yourself are translating my thoughts into your tongue as I utter them.”

“Already you see that Panawe is wiser than I am,” said Joiwind gaily.

“What is your name?” asked the husband.

“Maskull.”

“That name must have a meaning—­but again, thought is a strange thing.  I connect that name with something—­but with what?”

“Try to discover,” said Joiwind.

“Has there been a man in your world who stole something from the Maker of the universe, in order to ennoble his fellow creatures?”

“There is such a myth, The hero’s name was Prometheus.”

“Well, you seem to be identified in my mind with that action—­but what it all means I can’t say, Maskull.”

“Accept it as a good omen, for Panawe never lies, and never speaks thoughtlessly.”

“There must be some confusion.  These are heights beyond me,” said Maskull calmly, but looking rather contemplative.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the planet of a distant sun, called Earth.”

“What for?”

“I was tired of vulgarity,” returned Maskull laconically.  He intentionally avoided mentioning his fellow voyagers, in order that Krag’s name should not come to light.