Chapter VII: The Sacrifice

“Are you sure she will see when they take the bandages off?”

“I think she will, Alice. They say she will.”

“But we don’t know. I wish she’d awaken. We can take the bandage off then, can’t we?”

“Yes. Dr. Weatherby will do it.”

Alice tip-toed across the room and back. “She’s still asleep. I wish she’d awaken. Will it have to be as dim as this in here?”

“Yes, I think so. Dimmer, maybe. They’re afraid of the first light for her.”

The intricate, deeply involved operation had evidently created a widespread interest throughout the city. Surgeons had come, examined Dolores, held innumerable conferences, examined Loro, whose eyes, as they had suspected, could be used with perfect satisfaction. They anticipated there would be no difficulties. This was their decision after their final conference: they were capable of giving sight to Dolores.

We had not yet been out for our audience with the king. Nothing more had been said concerning it; the operation had become all-absorbing to everyone. The city quite obviously was in an excitement over it, an excitement only surpassed by our own publicly unexplained presence.

They had taken little Dolores up to our roof-top, where, from below, a curious throng gazed up at her. And then taken Loro. I heard the wild cheering.

I had wondered why they would not take one eye only, that each might see. But they had told me that it was impossible. In this instance, a lone one transplanted could not survive. There were technical, deeply medical reasons for this. I did not pry into these.

Then they brought Dolores back. Her eyes were bandaged.

Hours passed. The healing fluid they said was very swift. When Dolores awoke we could remove the bandages. Alice and I sat together.

Dr. Weatherby entered with Jim. Behind them, lingering near the doorway, was the chief surgeon who had performed the operation. He said softly, “You can awaken her. A little less light. Then you can take the bandages off.”

We awakened her gently. She sat up weakly, in bewilderment. “Oh, the bandage, yes, I remember now. They told me it was over. I was all right. And then I went to sleep.”

We gathered around her. A flat gray twilight was in the room. Dolores sat in the bed. Her long, dark tresses fell forward over her white shoulders.

My breath came fast. To see the light, form, color, the world, for the first time!

Very slowly, gently, Dr. Weatherby unwound the bandages. They dropped from his trembling hands to the bed.

“Now, Dolores, open your eyes, just a little.”

The dark lashes on her cheeks fluttered up, and closed instantly against the light. She could see!

Her eyes opened again, timidly, fearfully. But they stayed open, glorious dark eyes, luminous, eyes that were seeing! Eyes with light in them.

They opened very wide. Surprised, wondering!

“I see! I see!” There were no words to express her emotion. Just surprise and awe surging in her voice, stamped on her face. “I see! Jim, is that you, Jim? Why, that’s Jim I see!” Her hand went to her eyes as though to clear a blurring vision. “That . . . must be Jim. Come here, Jim. I want to see you closer.”

He fell on his knees beside the bed, and her hands went to his shoulders, his face, his hair.

“Jim, it _is_ you! It looks like you!”

* * * * *

“When do you suppose this king will see us, Len?” Jim asked. “How is Loro?”

“Oh, you weren’t here when Ren told us. More to it than he said, of course but that’s none of our business and we’re not going to make it our business. It was the end for Loro. It must have been planned that way.”

“I surmised as much. It’s pretty tough. At least he carried out his last wish and was able to make atonement for his crime by giving Dolores her sight. Now to our problem: I wish the king would see us. What did Ren say about that?”

I understood that our audience would be at any time. Ren was to let us know. Dolores had again fallen asleep. From where Jim and I sat I could see her bed, with Dr. Weatherby sitting there beside her.

Jim said, “When we once see the king and get out of here, things will look different. Why’s the old doc sitting there so long? He acted queer to me, Len. Did you see his face when he knew that Dolores was cured?”

I never answered the question. We heard a sound from in there, a choking cry, and saw Dr. Weatherby with a hand clutching his throat.

“Len, what the infernal—”

We rushed in. Dr. Weatherby sat looking at us. He had torn the collar of his robe with convulsive fingers. He stared at us. His hands were groping for the sides of his chair. “Len! I can’t . . . can’t get up!”

Before we could reach him, his great head sagged to the high hunched shoulders. He twitched a little, then slumped inert.

I swung on Jim. “Go pound on the door! Tell them to let you out! Get Ren! Tell Ren to bring a doctor, someone to help us!”

“He’s . . . dead?”

“No! Unconscious. He may be dying. Get help.”

* * * * *

They believed that Dr. Weatherby was dying. He lay in a room off our main apartment now, still unconscious, lying with closed eyes, motionless save for the tiny stirring of his breath.

It was, by earthly standards of day and night, now late afternoon, a soft, pale daylight. After another time of sleep the long night would be upon us.

They could not say how long Dr. Weatherby would live. There seemed nothing to do for him. The shock of his joy over Dolores, the let-down of the tension under which he had been laboring, had brought a collapse.

In hushed tones, with the awe of death upon us, we sat talking. We were on the upper half-story of the apartment off which the small bedrooms opened. I heard the sound of the door downstairs, and heard Ren’s voice. “How is he?”

I leaned over the balcony. “There is no change. Come up, Ren.”

He mounted the incline stairs. With him was a young girl. He introduced her gravely.

“The daughter of my uncle, who now is dead. She is named Sonya; she is very proud that she has learned from me your language. Hold out your hand, child. They shake it for the greeting, you see?”

I took the girl’s extended hand. She was the first woman we had seen of this new realm, and I regarded her curiously. She seemed of an age before full maturity, a small girl, small as Dolores, slim, almost fragile of body, garbed in a single short garment from neck to knees.

It was a sort of smock, of soft dull-red pleats, gathered with a girdle at the waist, high at the neck, with long, tight-fitting sleeves to the wrist. Over it was a long cloak of a heavier material which she discarded upon entering.

Her legs were bare. On her feet were leather sandals. Her hair was long and black as jet. Parted in the middle, it partially covered her ears, was caught by a thong at the back of her neck; and its long tresses, hanging nearly to her waist, were bound by a ribbonlike cord.

Her face was oval with expressive dark eyes and long black lashes. Sensuous lips, I thought, but a mouth and chin that bespoke a firm character. A beautiful young girl, intelligent, perhaps beyond most of her race. And that she was modish was plain to be seen.

Her coat had a jaunty cut to it, a lining of delicate fabric and contrasting color. Her smock was very tight at the throat, shoulders and sleeves, and tight across the bust to mould her youthful breast.

It fell not quite to her knees and flared with a stiffly circular bottom. Her face carried the stamp of youth and health.

She discarded her cloak and stopped to remove the skin sandals from her feet. Upon her left leg, just above the knee, was clasped a broad, white metal band.

“I am glad to know the strangers.” Her glance went to the room where Dr. Weatherby was lying. “But I intrude at a very sad time for you.”

She and Ren sat quietly down among us. Ren said,

“Our king, too, is ill. A very old man.” He shook his head dubiously.

“Oh,” said Jim. “Well, then we—”

Sonya seemed to take the thought from him. “I have already told my cousin,” she said quickly, “that you must swear your allegiance to the king at once. We need you. You men look very strong, very masterful.”

She said it frankly, merely as a statement of fact, but there was an unconscious admiration in her gaze. “We need you and we . . . perhaps we need the girls.” She said the last with a singular, enigmatic emphasis.

“Right,” said Jim heartily. “You fix it up for us, get the audience. I want to be out of here. We’ve been tied here like time-keepers in a tower.”

“Our king will die. That is sure now. Our girls must act; it is now or never!”