“Come,” she said, smiling.

So we went past the image of Fate, out of the temple, down the vast and lonely streets so unnaturally illuminated, to the place where we had first found ourselves on arrival in the depths.  There we stood.

A moment later and we were whirling up as we had whirled down.  I suppose that Yva came with us though I never saw her do so, and the odd thing was that when we arrived in the sepulchre, she seemed already to be standing there waiting to direct us.

“Really,” remarked Bastin, “this is exactly like Maskelyne and Cook.  Did you ever see their performance, Bickley?  If so, it must have given you lots to explain for quite a long while.”

“Jugglery never appealed to me, whether in London or in Orofena,” replied Bickley in a sour voice as he extracted from his pocket an end of candle to which he set light.

“What is jugglery?” asked Bastin, and they departed arguing, leaving me alone with Yva in the sepulchre.

“What have I seen?” I asked her.

“I do not know, Humphrey.  Everyone sees different things, but perhaps something of the truth.”

“I hope not, Yva, for amongst other things I seemed to see you swear yourself to a man for ever.”

“Yes, and this I did.  What of it?”

“Only that it might be hard for another man.”

“Yes, for another man it might be hard.  You were once married, were you not, Humphrey, to a wife who died?”

“Yes, I was married.”

“And did you not swear to that wife that you would never look in love upon another woman?”

“I did,” I answered in a shamed voice.  “But how do you know?  I never told you so.”

“Oh!  I know you and therefore guessed.”

“Well, what of it, Yva?”

“Nothing, except that you must find your wife before you love again, and before I love again I must find him whom I wish to be my husband.”

“How can that happen,” I asked, “when both are dead?”

“How did all that you have seen to-day in Nyo happen?” she replied, laughing softly.  “Perhaps you are very blind, Humphrey, or perhaps we both are blind.  If so, mayhap light will come to us.  Meanwhile do not be sad.  Tomorrow I will meet you and you shall teach me—­your English tongue, Humphrey, and other things.”

“Then let it be in the sunlight, Yva.  I do not love those darksome halls of Nyo that glow like something dead.”

“It is fitting, for are they not dead?” she answered, with a little laugh.  “So be it.  Bastin shall teach my father down below, since sun and shade are the same to him who only thinks of his religion, and you shall teach me up above.”

“I am not so certain about Bastin and of what he thinks,” I said doubtfully.  “Also will the Lord Oro permit you to come?”

“Yes, for in such matters I rule myself.  Also,” she added meaningly, “he remembers my oath that I will wed no man—­save one who is dead.  Now farewell a while and bid Bastin be here when the sun is three hours high, not before or after.”