"It is a lie! But here and now he shall choose, Yolara.

And if you he choose, you and he shall go forth from here unmolested--for Yolara, it is his happiness that I most desire, and if you are that happiness--you shall go together.

And now, Larry, choose!" Swiftly she stepped beside the priestess; swiftly wrenched the last shreds of the hiding robes from her.
There they stood--Yolara with but the filmiest net of gauze about her wonderful body; gleaming flesh shining through it; serpent woman---and wonderful, too, beyond the dreams even of Phidias--and hell-fire glowing from the purple eyes.
And Lakla, like a girl of the Vikings, like one of those warrior maids who stood and fought for dun and babes at the side of those old heroes of Larry's own green isle; translucent ivory lambent through the rents of her torn draperies, and in the wide, golden eyes flaming wrath, indeed--not the diabolic flames of the priestess but the righteous wrath of some soul that looking out of paradise sees vile wrong in the doing.
"Lakla," the O'Keefe's voice was subdued, hurt, "there _is_ no choice.
I love you and only you--and have from the moment I saw you.

It's not easy--this.

God, Goodwin, I feel like an utter cad," he flashed at me.
"There is no choice, Lakla," he ended, eyes steady upon hers.
The priestess's face grew deadlier still.
"What will you do with me ?" she asked.
"Keep you," I said, "as hostage." O'Keefe was silent; the Golden Girl shook her head.
"Well would I like to," her face grew dreaming; "but the Silent Ones say--_no_; they bid me let you go, Yolara--" "The Silent Ones," the priestess laughed.