The girl stood near Arnsen. A score of the jewels pressed against her lovingly. They caressed her. The veiled eyes did not meet Arnsen's. But she lifted her arm.
There was a movement in Arnsen's gloved hand. The milky gem stirred; a pulse of eagerness beat out from it.
It leaped free—raced toward Circe.
She caught it, flung it at the shaking tower of flame.
Into the pillar's blazing heart the crystal darted.
The fires sank—rose again. Spewed forth the jewel.
No longer milky—no longer dulled. It blazed with fantastic brilliance! Vital energy streamed from it; it whirled and danced joyously with sheer delight. It was like a sleeper suddenly awakened.
It spun toward Circe, pulsed madly with the intoxication of life.
The girl rose, featherlight, without gravity, drifting across the cavern to a passage-mouth that gaped in the wall. The jewels clustered around it swayed toward her. Some broke free, rushing in her train.
She vanished into the portal.