What was it?
Larry! Where was Larry?
I remembered; raised my head abruptly; saw at my side another frog-man carrying O'Keefe, and behind him, Olaf, step instinct with grief, following like some faithful, wistful dog who has lost a loved master.

Upon my movement the monster bearing me halted, looked down inquiringly, uttered a deep, booming note that held the quality of interrogation.
Lakla turned; the clear, golden eyes were sorrowful, the sweet mouth drooping; but her loveliness, her gentleness, that undefinable synthesis of all her tender self that seemed always to circle her with an atmosphere of lucid normality, lulled my panic.
"Drink this," she commanded, holding a small vial to my lips.
Its contents were aromatic, unfamiliar but astonishingly effective, for as soon as they passed my lips I felt a surge of strength; consciousness was restored.
"Larry!" I cried.

"Is he dead ?" Lakla shook her head; her eyes were troubled.
"No," she said; "but he is like one dead--and yet unlike--" "Put me down," I demanded of my bearer.
He tightened his hold; round eyes upon the Golden Girl.

She spoke--in sonorous, reverberating monosyllables--and I was set upon my feet; I leaped to the side of the Irishman.

He lay limp, with a disquieting, abnormal sequacity, as though every muscle were utterly flaccid; the antithesis of the _rigor mortis_, thank God, but terrifyingly toward the other end of its arc; a syncope I had never known.