"Yes, I wish to be pure," he muttered. "Without that what can I ever
be but a weak, squirming devil?"

Joiwind released him. "This we call the 'magn,'" she said,
indicating her tentacle. "By means of it what we love already we
love more, and what we don't love at all we begin to love."

"A godlike organ!"

"It is the one we guard most jealously," said Joiwind.

The shade of the trees afforded a timely screen from the now almost
insufferable rays of Branchspell, which was climbing steadily upward
to the zenith. On descending the other side of the little hills,
Maskull looked anxiously for traces of Nightspore and Krag, but
without result. After staring about him for a few minutes he
shrugged his shoulders; but suspicions had already begun to gather in
his mind.

A small, natural amphitheatre lay at their feet, completely circled
by the tree-clad heights. The centre was of red sand. In the very
middle shot up a tall, stately tree, with a black trunk and branches,
and transparent, crystal leaves. At the foot of this tree was a
natural, circular well, containing dark green water.

When they had reached the bottom, Joiwind took him straight over to
the well.

Maskull gazed at it intently. "Is this the shrine you talked about?"