"There are, second, we the soldiers; and last, the mayia ladala, who dig and till and weave and toil and give our rulers and us their daughters, and dance with the Shining One!" he added.
"Who rules ?" I asked.
"The fair-haired, under the Council of Nine, who are under Yolara, the Priestess and Lugur, the Voice," he answered, "who are in turn beneath the Shining One!" There was a ring of bitter satire in the last.
"And those three who were judged ?"--this from Larry.
"They were of the mayia ladala," he replied, "like those two I gave you.

But they grow restless.

They do not like to dance with the Shining One--the blasphemers!" He raised his voice in a sudden great shout of mocking laughter.
In his words I caught a fleeting picture of the race--an ancient, luxurious, close-bred oligarchy clustered about some mysterious deity; a soldier class that supported them; and underneath all the toiling, oppressed hordes.
"And is that all ?" asked Larry.
"No," he answered.

"There is the Sea of Crimson where--" Without warning the globe beside us sent out a vicious note, Rador turned toward it, his face paling.

Its surface crawled with whisperings--angry, peremptory! "I hear!" he croaked, gripping the table.