“That?” asked the girl, turning the virgin-blue fire of her eyes on him. “That was my death-song that I practice each day. Perhaps soon I shall be released from this.” She passed her hands over her beautiful, half-clothed body.
Hale’s warm glance swept over her. “Do you want to die?”
“Yes; don’t you? But you do not, or you would not have retreated from my poisoned arrow.”
“No, Aña; I want to live.”
“To live—and be a slave of this?” Again her hand went over her slim body. “A slave of a pile of flesh that you must feed and protect from the agonies that attack it on every side? Bah! But I am hoping that my turn will come next.”
“Your turn for what, Aña?”
“To enter the Room of Release. Perhaps, if Aimu approves of you, you, too, may taste of death.” Her gentle smile was beatific.
“Do you speak of Sir Basil Addington?”
“He was called that once, before he came to us. Now he has no name. We can find none holy enough for him; and so we call him Aimu, which means good friend.” Her beautiful face was sweet with reverence.