He bent forward and spoke softly.
"Did not the adôn wish to ascend the mountain?" he asked.
"Rather," said Amory, "but how, good heavens?"
"I and Akko wish to ascend also; the prince has sent us no message, and we fear him," said Jarvo simply. "There are on the island, adôn, six carriers, trained from birth to make the ascent. They are the sons of those whose duty it was to ascend, and they the sons for many generations. The trail is very steep, very perilous. Six were taught to go up with messages long before the knowledge of the wireless way, long before the flight of the airships. They are become a tradition of the island. It is with them that you must ascend—if you have no fear."
"Fear!" cried Amory. "But these men, what of them? They are in the employ of the State. How do you know they will take us?"
Jarvo dropped his eyes.
"I and Akko," he said quietly, "we are two of these six carriers, adôn."
Then Amory leaped up, scattering the ashes of his pipe over the tiles. This, then, was what was the matter with the feet of the two men, about which they had all speculated on the deck of The Aloha, the feet trained from birth to make the ascent of the steep trail, feet become long, tenuous, almost prehensile—
"It's miracles, that's what it is," declared Amory solemnly. "How on earth did they come to take you to New York?" he could not forbear asking.
"The prince knew nothing of your country, adôn," answered Jarvo simply. "He might have needed us to enter it."