“Brother.” The sweet voice seemed far away, drifting out of untroubled space, an echo of Norhala's golden chimings—“Brother, there is nothing wrong with me. Indeed—all is—well with me—brother.”
He dropped the listless palms, faced the woman, tall figure tense, drawn with mingled rage and anguish.
“What have you done to her?” he whispered in Norhala's own tongue.
Her serene gaze took him in, undisturbed by his anger save for the faintest shadow of wonder, of perplexity.
“Done?” she repeated, slowly. “I have stilled all that was troubled within her—have lifted her above sorrow. I have given her the peace—as I will give it to you if—”
“You'll give me nothing,” he interrupted fiercely; then, his passion breaking through all restraint—“Yes, you damned witch—you'll give me back my sister!”
In his rage he had spoken English; she could not, of course, have understood the words, but their anger and hatred she did understand. Her serenity quivered, broke. The strange stars within her eyes began to glitter forth as they had when she had summoned the Smiting Thing. Unheeding, Ventnor thrust out a hand, caught her roughly by one bare, lovely shoulder.
“Give her back to me, I say!” he cried. “Give her back to me!”
The woman's eyes grew—awful. Out of the distended pupils the strange stars blazed; upon her face was something of the goddess outraged. I felt the shadow of Death's wings.
“No! No—Norhala! No, Martin!” the veils of inhuman calm shrouding Ruth were torn; swiftly the girl we knew looked out from them. She threw herself between the two, arms outstretched.