"Zailm, my son, thou heardst the narration of the Saldu, Lolix. As thou knowest, it is from things arisen out of the occurrences by her related that thou goest on a mission to Suern. It is not a hard task, merely to make return of acknowledgment for the gifts presented and disavowal of our intent to keep as prisoners the people whom Rai Ernon sent hither. We will give them asylum, but Rai Ernon must not think that we permit their presence for any purpose except to do him a favor. Concerning other business, on the morrow it is Rai Gwauxln's pleasure that thou attendest at Agacoe. But wilt thou not remain here this night?"
"Zailm, my son, you heard Lolix the Saldu's story. As you know, the events she described are why you're going on a mission to Suern. It's not a difficult task—you're simply acknowledging the gifts and clarifying that we don't intend to keep Rai Ernon's people as prisoners. We'll give them sanctuary, but Rai Ernon must understand that we're only doing this as a favor to him. On another matter, Rai Gwauxln wants you to attend Agacoe tomorrow. But won't you stay here tonight?"
"My father, I fain would stay; but is it not duteous that I go unto my mother this night and set her at ease? She hath an infirmity of nervousness that can not well withstand my absence at night."
"Father, I'd like to stay, but shouldn't I go to my mother tonight and put her mind at ease? She has a nervous condition that makes it hard for her when I'm not home at night."
"Thou art right, Zailm. Yet soon it must be arranged that thy mother be domiciled in some pleasant part of this astikithlon, so that thou shalt be under thy father's roof at night."
"You're right, Zailm. But we'll need to arrange for your mother to be settled in a nice part of this astikithlon soon, so you can stay under your father's roof at night."
I then departed from the prince and from the sweet girl who had been with us during a part of the evening, and went forth into the night. The rain had ceased, and the clouds, rolling across the sky in sullen blackness, had but one rift in their gloomy mass. In this single rent shone a great white star, which at times flashed red. As I looked at it, down close to the horizon, seeming that moment risen from old ocean's phosphorescent waters, visible from Menax Heights, I thought of the past; for this star had flashed brightly upon me while I awaited the sunrise on Pitach Rhok. So many years it seemed since that morn! To-day this star is called "Sirius," we named it "Corietos." As I looked upon it, it seemed an omen auspicious of success, past, present and to come. Raising my hands toward it, I murmured:
I left the prince and the charming young woman who had joined us earlier, stepping out into the night. The rain had stopped, and dark clouds rolled across the sky, broken only by a single gap. Through this opening, a bright white star shone, occasionally flashing red. As I gazed at it near the horizon, seemingly just risen from the luminous ocean waters visible from Menax Heights, I reflected on the past. This star had shone brightly for me as I awaited sunrise on Pitach Rhok so many years ago. Today we call it "Sirius," but we knew it as "Corietos." As I watched it, it felt like a good omen for success—past, present, and future. I raised my hands toward it and whispered:
"Phyris, Phyrisooa Pertos!" which is: "Star, O star of my life."
"Phyris, Phyrisooa Pertos!" which means: "Star, O star of my life."
It seems a little singular that the language which is translated thus should have a similar sound and import as to-day used by the people of my home planet. At that old day I raised my hands aloft and exclaimed: "Star, O star of my life!" To-day I turn awhile from precipitating this history in astral word-things, turn to my Alter Ego, and say: "Phyris, Phyrisa." This is her own dear name, and signifies "Star of my soul." Peculiar, is it not, that twelve thousand years should pass, and I, member of another race of human beings, in another mansion, find so little change in the language of the soul?
It's peculiar how the language I'm translating sounds strikingly similar to what we use on my home planet today. Back then, I raised my hands and exclaimed, "Star, O star of my life!" Now, as I pause from recording this history in astral words, I turn to my Alter Ego and say, "Phyris, Phyrisa." This is her beloved name, meaning "Star of my soul." Isn't it strange that after twelve thousand years, as a member of a different human race in another world, I find the language of the soul has changed so little?