Spasmodically, her hands came up. "No—!" Nails dug into his wrist.
He started at the tempestuous violence of her; the sudden strength. Then, wearily, he drew back his hand.
In the same instant Sark's voice lanced in: "Leave her alone, chitza!"
Haral turned.
The raider chief and his men were back, now. They poured into the crypt in a rush. Sark himself swept toward the dais in his riding-chair as on the crest of a wave, ahead of all the others. His thick lips were working, his eyes hot with excitement.
But his fingers never left the cymosynthesizer switch.
Haral clenched his fist in frustrated fury. Of a sudden his wounds, his weariness, hung heavy on him.
He glimpsed Kyla. Hesitantly, she, too, was coming towards the goddess. Her lips were parted as if to cry out in protest against this whole bizarre affair. Deep lines of strain marred the pale loveliness of her face.
Sark cried: "Back, chitza! Stand clear of Xaymar!"