He whom Tarrano called Cretar, took a step forward.
"Master, we——"
"Making yourselves immortal?" The anger had left Tarrano's voice; irony was there instead.
"Master——"
"Have you done that?"
"Master—yes! Yes! We did! Forgive us, Master."
The man before the instrument had retreated from it. Elza saw now that all the men were shrinking back in terror. All save Cretar, who had fallen tremblingly to his knees. Yet Tarrano showed no anger. He laughed.
"I would not hurt you, Cretar! Get up, man! I am not angry—not even annoyed. Why, your skin is turning orange. See the mottles!"
On the flesh of all the men—save the one who had been checked in the act of using the instrument—a bright orange mottling was apparent. Cretar exclaimed:
"The immunity to all diseases, master. It is itself a disease—harmless—and it combats every other." He laughed a little wildly. "We cannot get sick now. We cannot die—we are immortal. Come, Master—let us make you so!"