Like the first mutterings of a thunderstorm, the first faint breaths of cool wind, Maskull felt the stirrings of passion in his heart.  In spite of his bodily fatigue, he in wished to test his strength against something.  This craving he identified with the crags of the Marest.  They seemed to have the same magical attraction for his will as the lodestone for iron.  He kept biting his nails, as he turned his eyes in that direction—­wondering if it would not be possible to conquer the heights that evening.  But when he glanced back again at Poolingdred, he remembered Joiwind and Panawe, and grew more tranquil.  He decided to make his bed at this spot, and to set off as soon after daybreak as he should awake.

He drank at the river, washed himself, and lay down on the bank to sleep.  By this time, so far had his idea progressed, that he cared nothing for the possible dangers of the night—­he confided in his star.

Branchspell set, the day faded, night with its terrible weight came on, and through it all Maskull slept.  Long before midnight, however, he was awakened by a crimson glow in the sky.  He opened his eyes, and wondered where he was.  He felt heaviness and pain.  The red glow was a terrestrial phenomenon; it came from among the trees.  He got up and went toward the source of the light.

Away from the river, not a hundred feet off, he nearly stumbled across the form of a sleeping woman.  The object which emitted the crimson rays was lying on the ground, several yards away from her.  It was like a small jewel, throwing off sparks of red light.  He barely threw a glance at that, however.

The woman was clothed in the large skin of an animal.  She had big, smooth, shapely limbs, rather muscular than fat.  Her magn was not a thin tentacle, but a third arm, terminating in a hand.  Her face, which was upturned, was wild, powerful, and exceedingly handsome.  But he saw with surprise that in place of a breve on her forehead, she possessed another eye.  All three were closed.  The colour of her skin in the crimson glow he could not distinguish.

He touched her gently with his hand.  She awoke calmly and looked up at him without stirring a muscle.  All three eyes stared at him; but the two lower ones were dull and vacant—­mere carriers of vision.  The middle, upper one alone expressed her inner nature.  Its haughty, unflinching glare had yet something seductive and alluring in it.  Maskull felt a challenge in that look of lordly, feminine will, and his manner instinctively stiffened.

She sat up.

“Can you speak my language?” he asked.  “I wouldn’t put such a question, but others have been able to.”

“Why should you imagine that I can’t read your mind?  Is it so extremely complex?”

She spoke in a rich, lingering, musical voice, which delighted him to listen to.

“No, but you have no breve.”

“Well, but haven’t I a sorb, which is better?” And she pointed to the eye on her brow.