In them something struggled to arise, fighting its way to the surface like some drowning human thing.
It sank back--upon her face dropped a cloud of heartbreak, appalling woe; the despair of a soul that, having withdrawn all faith in its own kind to rest all faith, as it thought, on angels--sees that faith betrayed.
There stared upon us a stripped spirit, naked and hopeless and terrible.
Despairing, raging, she screamed once more.

The central globe swam to her; it raised her upon its back; glided to the doorway.

Upon it she stood poised like some youthful, anguished Victory--a Victory who faced and knew she faced destroying defeat; poised upon that enigmatic orb on bare slender feet, one sweet breast bare, hands upraised, virginally archaic, nothing about her of the Ruth we knew.
"Ruth!" cried Drake; despair as great as that upon her face was in his voice.

He sprang before the globe that held her; barred its way.
For an instant the Thing paused--and in that instant the human soul of the girl rushed back.
"No!" she cried.

"No!" A weird call issued from the white lips--stumbling, uncertain, as though she who sent it forth herself wondered whence it sprang.