“It need not be accounted for, my lord.  We accept it as fact.  The affinity of spirit would not be bound by the limitation of artificial speech.  That you should talk the Thomahlia language is no more strange than that Rhamda Avec, when he passed into your world, should speak your tongue.”

“We call our language English,” supplied Watson.  “It is the tongue of the Jarados and of myself.”

“Tell me of the Jarados, my lord!” with renewed eagerness.  “In the other world—­what is he?”

It was Chick’s opportunity.  By telling the simple truth about Dr. Holcomb he would enhance himself in the eyes of Rhamda Geas.

“In the other world—­we call it America—­the Jaradas is a Rhamda much like yourself, the head and chief of many Rhamdas sitting in a great institution devoted to intelligence.  It is called the University of California.”

“And this California; what is it, my lord?”

“A name,” returned Chick.  “Immediately on the other side of the Spot is a region called California.”

“The promised land, my lord!”

“The promised land indeed.  There are some who call it paradise, even there.”  And for good measure he proceeded to tell much of his own land, of the woods, the rivers, the cities, animals, mountains, the sky, the moon, and the sun.  When he came to the sun he explained that no man dared to look at it continuously with the bare eyes.  Its great heat and splendour astounded Geos.

Concerning himself he nonchalantly stated that he was the fiance of Holcomb’s daughter; that is, son-in-law-to-be of the prophet Jarados; that he was sort of Junior Rhamda.  He declared that he had come from the occult Rhamdas, through the other side of the Spot, in search of the Jarados who had gone before.  As to his blankness up to now, and his perplexity—­he was but a Junior; and the Spot had naturally benumbed his senses.  Even now, he apologised, it was difficult to know and to recall everything clearly.

Through it all the Rhamda Geos Listened in something like awe.  He was hearing of wonders never before guessed in the Thomahlia.  As the prospective son-in-law of the Jarados, Watson automatically lifted himself to a supreme height, so great that, could he only hold himself up to it, he would have a prestige second only to that of the prophet himself.

All of a sudden he thought of a question.  It gripped him with dread, the dread of the unknown.  The question was one of time.  “How long have I been here, Rhamda Geos?”

“Over eleven months, by our system of reckoning.  You were found on the floor of the temple three hundred and fifty-seven days ago; you were in a lifeless condition; you must have been there some hours, my lord, before we discovered you.”

“Eleven months!” It had seemed but that many minutes.  “And I was unconscious—­”

“All the time, my lord.  Had we caught you immediately upon your coming, we could have brought you around within three days, but in the circumstances it was impossible to restore you before we did.  You have been under the care of the greatest specialists in all Thomahlia.”