Within this their milky radiance grew brighter--brighter.

The song whispered away.

A throbbing arpeggio dripped from the harps, and as the notes pulsed out, up from the globes, as though striving to follow, pulsed with them tips of moon-fire cones, such as I had seen before Yolara's altar.

Weirdly, caressingly, compellingly the harp notes throbbed in repeated, re-repeated theme, holding within itself the same archaic golden quality I had noted in the singing.

And over the moon flame pinnacles rose higher! Yolara lifted her arms; within her hands were clasped O'Keefe's.