"What?" The cry came from both O'Keefe and myself at once.
Olaf made a gesture of caution, relapsed into sullen silence. There were footsteps on the path, and into sight came Rador—but a Rador changed. Gone was every vestige of his mockery; curiously solemn, he saluted O'Keefe and Olaf with that salute which, before this, I had seen given only to Yolara and to Lugur. There came a swift quickening of the tumult—died away. He shrugged mighty shoulders.
"The ladala are awake!" he said. "So much for what two brave men can do!" He paused thoughtfully. "Bones and dust jostle not each other for place against the grave wall!" he added oddly. "But if bones and dust have revealed to them that they still—live—"
He stopped abruptly, eyes seeking the globe that bore and sent forth speech.[2]
"The Afyo Maie has sent me to watch over you till she summons you," he announced clearly. "There is to be a—feast. You, Larree, you Goodwin, are to come. I remain here with—Olaf."
"No harm to him!" broke in O'Keefe sharply. Rador touched his heart, his eyes.
"By the Ancient Ones, and by my love for you, and by what you twain did before the Shining One—I swear it!" he whispered.
Rador clapped palms; a soldier came round the path, in his grip a long flat box of polished wood. The green dwarf took it, dismissed him, threw open the lid.
"Here is your apparel for the feast, Larree," he said, pointing to the contents.
O'Keefe stared, reached down and drew out a white, shimmering, softly metallic, long-sleeved tunic, a broad, silvery girdle, leg swathings of the same argent material, and sandals that seemed to be cut out from silver. He made a quick gesture of angry dissent.