Whatever the maze through which we were moving; whatever of menacing evil lurking there--the Golden Girl was clearly watching over us; watching with whatever unknown powers she could muster.
We passed the pillared entrance; went through a long bowered corridor and stopped before a door that seemed to be sliced from a monolith of pale jade--high, narrow, set in a wall of opal.
Rador stamped twice and the same supernally sweet, silver bell tones of--yesterday, I must call it, although in that place of eternal day the term is meaningless--bade us enter.

The door slipped aside.

The chamber was small, the opal walls screening it on three sides, the black opacity covering it, the fourth side opening out into a delicious little walled garden--a mass of the fragrant, luminous blooms and delicately colored fruit.

Facing it was a small table of reddish wood and from the omnipresent cushions heaped around it arose to greet us--Yolara.
Larry drew in his breath with an involuntary gasp of admiration and bowed low.

My own admiration was as frank--and the priestess was well pleased with our homage.
She was swathed in the filmy, half-revelant webs, now of palest blue.
The corn-silk hair was caught within a wide-meshed golden net in which sparkled tiny brilliants, like blended sapphires and diamonds.