“Sun. English,” she repeated after me, then added, “How are you named, Wanderer?”
“Humphrey,” I answered.
“Hum-fe-ry!” she said as though she were learning the word, “and those?”
“Bastin and Bickley,” I replied.
Over these patronymics she shook her head; as yet they were too much for her.
“How are you named, Sleeper?” I asked.
“Yva,” she answered.
“A beautiful name for one who is beautiful,” I declared with enthusiasm, of course always in the rich Orofenan dialect which by now I could talk well enough.
She repeated the words once or twice, then of a sudden caught their meaning, for she smiled and even coloured, saying hastily with a wave of her hand towards the Ancient who stood at a distance between Bastin and Bickley, “My father, Oro; great man; great king; great god!”
At this information I started, for it was startling to learn that here was the original Oro, who was still worshipped by the Orofenans, although of his actual existence they had known nothing for uncounted time. Also I was glad to learn that he was her father and not her old husband, for to me that would have been horrible, a desecration too deep for words.