It was a critical moment for Chick. Out of the impulse of his inner
nature he had chosen the odds that he must now uphold against the
combined wisdom of these intellectuals. He was alone, with no one
to guide him save Geos, who undoubtedly was his friend, but who as
undoubtedly would desert him upon the slightest inkling of imposture.
He found himself in a great, round room, or rather an oval one, domed at
the top but tinted in a far more beautiful colouring--lazuli blue. The
walls were cut by long, narrow windows reaching far up into the sweep
where the side melted into the ceiling. The material of the windows was
of the same translucent substance already noted, but slightly tinged
with green, so that they shed a soft light, cooled and quiet, over the
whole assembly.
On the wall opposite the doorway was a large replica of the clover-leaf
design outside, even more gem-like in brilliance; its three colours
woven into a trinity almost of flame. Whether the light was artificial
or intrinsic, Chick could not say. The floor of the place accommodated
some three hundred tables, of the library type, and the same number
of men bearing the distinguished stamp of the Rhamda. All were
smooth-shaven, comparatively tall, and possessing the same aesthetic
manner which impressed one with the notion of inherited, inherent
culture. The entire hall had the atmosphere of learning, justice and the
supreme tribunal.
For a moment Watson felt weak and uncertain. He could hold up against
Geos and Avec, but in the face of such an array he wasn't so sure. There
was but one thing to encourage him; the faces into which he looked. All
were full of wonder and reverence.
Then he looked about him more carefully. He had come out upon a wide
platform, or rostrum. He now noticed that he was flanked on either side
by thrones--two of them; they seemed made of golden amber. The one on
the right was occupied by a man, the other by a woman. In the pause that
was vouchsafed him Chick took note of these two, and wondered.
In the first place, the man was not a Rhamda. The jewelled semi-armour
that he wore was more significant than the dignified garb of the
Intellectuals; at the same time, his accoutrements cheapened him, by
contrast. He was executive, princely, with the bearing that comes of
worldly ambitions and attainments; a man strangely handsome, vital,
athletic; curling hair, dark, quick eyes and even features; except
only for the mouth he might have been taken as a model of the Greek
Alexander.
The clothes he wore were classic, as was everything else about him, even
to his sandals, his bare arms and his jewelled breastplate.
Watson had studied history. He had a quick impression of a composite--of
genius, cruelty and sensuality. Here was one with three strong natures,
a sort of Nero, Caligula and Alexander combined: the sensuality of the
first, the cruelty of the second, and the instinctive fire and greatness
of the immortal Macedonian. The man was smiling; not an amused smile,
but one of interest, humorous tolerance.
When their eyes met, Chick caught the magnetic current of personality,
the same sense of illusiveness that he and Harry Wendel had noted in
the Nervina; only here it was negative, resisting instead of aiding.
A number of the blue guard surrounded the throne, their faces dark,
strong, and of unconquerable resolution, though slow to think.
On the other throne was a girl. Chick had heard enough from the Geos to
guess her identity: one of the queens, the Aradna; frail, delicate, a
blue-eyed maiden, with a waving mass of straw-gold hair hanging loosely
about her shoulders. She too was classically attired, although there
were touches of modernity here and there in the arrangement of ribbons;
the garment matched her guards' crimson, and was draped about her
shoulders so as to leave one bare, together with that arm. Across her
forehead was a band of dark-blue gems, and she wore no other jewels.
She was not more than seventeen or eighteen, with eyes like bluebells,
lips as red as poppies, features that danced with delight and laughter
and all the innocence that one would associate with elfin royalty.
Instinctively Chick compared her with the Nervina.
The senior queen had the subtle magnetism, the uncountable fascination,
the poise and decision that held and dictated all things to her fancy.
Not so the Aradna. Hers was the strength of simplicity, the frank, open
delight of the maiden, and at the same time all the charm and suggestion
of coming womanhood. When she caught Watson's eye she smiled; a smile
free and unrestrained, out of an open, happy heart. She made a remark
to one of her guards, who nodded a reply after the manner of a friend,
rather than a courtier.
Watson turned to the Geos, who stood somewhat to one side, and a little
to the rear.
“The Aradna?”
“Yes. The queen of D'Hartia. The man on the other side is the Bar
Senestro.”
Whatever feeling Chick entertained for the one was offset by what he
felt for the other. He was between two forces; his instinct warned him
of the Bar, sceptical, powerful, ruthless, a man to be reckoned with;
but his better nature went out to the young queen.
At a motion from Geos, the whole assembly of Rhamdas stood up. The
action was both dignified and reverent. Though Chick was, in their eyes,
a miracle, there was no unseemly staring nor jarring of curiosity; all
was quietness, ease, poise; the only sound was that of the constant
subtle music of those invisible bells.
Rhamda Geos began speaking. At the same time he placed a friendly hand
on Watson's shoulder, a signal for every other Rhamda to resume his
seat.
“The Fact and the Substance, my brothers.”
Geos paused as he made use of the ultra-significant phrase. And then,
in a few rapid sentences, he ran over the synopsis of that affair,
beginning with some philosophy and other details that Watson could only
half understand, making frequent allusions to the Jarados and other
writers of prophecy; then he made some mention of his own particular
brand of spiritism and its stand on materialisation. This he followed
with an account of the finding of Watson in the temple, his long sleep
and ultimate reviving. At greater length he repeated the gist of their
conversation.
Not until then was there a stir among the Rhamdas. Chick glanced over at
the Aradna. She was listening eagerly, her chin cupped in her hand,
her blue eyes full of interest and wonder, and natural, unfeigned,
child-like delight.
Then the Bar caught Chick's glance; the newcomer felt the cold chill of
calculation, the cynical weight of the sceptic, and a queer foreboding
of the future; no light glance, but one like fire and ice and iron.
He wondered at the man's beauty and genius, and at his emotional
preponderance manifest even here before the Rhamdas.
The Geos went on. His words, now, were simple and direct. Watson felt
himself almost deified by that reverent manner. The Rhamdas listened
with visibly growing interest; the Aradna leaned slightly forward; even
the Bar dropped his interest in Watson to pay closer attention to the
speaker. For Geos had come to the Jarados; he was an orator as well as
a mystic, and he was advancing Chick's words with all the skill of a
master of language, ascending effect--climax--the Jarados had come among
them, and--They had missed him!
For a moment there was silence, then a rustle of general comment. Chick
watched the Rhamdas, leaning over to whisper to each other. Could he
stand up against them?
But none of them spoke. After the first murmur of comment they lapsed
into silence again. It was the Bar Senestro who broke the tension.
“May I ask, Rhamda Geos, why you make such an assertion? What proof have
you, to begin with, that this man,” indicating Watson with a nod, “is
not merely one of ourselves: a D'Hartian or a Kospian?”
The Geos replied instantly: “You know the manner of his discovery, Bar
Senestro. Have you not eyes?” Geos seemed to think he had said the last
word.
“Surely,” rejoined the Bar good-humouredly. “I have very good eyes,
Rhamda Geos. Likewise I have a mind to reason with; but my imagination,
I fear, is defective. What I behold is just such a creature as myself;
not otherwise. How hold you that this one is proof out of the occult?”
“You are sceptical,” returned the Rhamda, evenly. “Even as you behold
him, you are full of doubt. But do you not recall the words of the great
Avec? Do you not know the Prophecy of the Jarados?”
“Truly, Geos; I remember them both. Especially the writing on the wall
of the temple. Does not the prophet himself say: 'And behold, in the
last days there shall come among ye--the false ones. Them ye shall
slay'?”
“All very true, Bar Senestro. But you well know--we all know--that the
true prophecy was to be fulfilled when the Spot was opened. Did not the
fulfilment begin when the Avec and the Nervina passed through to the
other side?”
“The fulfilment, Geos? Perhaps it was the sign of the coming of
impostors! The end may not be until ALL the conditions are complied
with!”
But at this moment Aradna saw fit to speak.
“Senestro, would you condemn this one without allowing him a word in his
own defence? Is it fair? Besides, he does not look like an impostor to
me. I like his face. Perhaps he is one of the chosen!”
At the last word the Bar frowned. His glance shifted suddenly to Watson,
a swift look of ice-cold calculation.
“Very, very true, O Aradna. I, too, would have him speak in his own
behalf. Let him amuse us with his tongue. What would your majesty care
to hear, O Aradna, from this phantom?”
The words were of biting satire. Chick wheeled upon the Bar. Their eyes
clashed; an encounter not altogether to Watson's credit. He was a bit
unsteady, a trifle uncertain of his power. He had calculated on the
superstition of the Rhamdas to hold him up until he caught his footing,
and this unexpected scepticism was disconcerting. However, he was no
coward; the feeling passed away almost at once. He strode straight up to
the throne of the Bar; and once more he spoke from sheer impulse:
“The Aradna has spoken true, O Senestro, or sinister, or whatever you
may be called. I demand fair hearing! It is my due; for I have come from
another world. I follow--the Jarados!”
If Watson had supposed that he had taken the Bar's measure, he was
mistaken. The prince's eyes suddenly glinted with a fierce pleasure.
Like a flash his antagonism shifted to something astonishingly like
admiration.
“Well spoken! Incidentally, you are well made and sound looking,
stranger.”
“Passably,” replied Watson. “I do not care to discuss my appearance,
however. I am certainly no more ill-favoured than some others.”
“And impertinent,” continued the other, quite without malice. “Do you
know anything about the Bar, to whom you speak so saucily?”
“I know that you have intimated that I may be an impostor. You have done
this, after hearing what the learned Rhamda Geos has said. You know the
facts; you know that I have come from the Jarados. I--”
But it wasn't Watson's words that held the Bar's attention. Chick's
straight, well-knit form, his quick-trained actions, overbalanced
the question of the prophet in the mind of the man on the throne. His
delight was self-evident.
“Truly you are soundly built, stranger; you are made of iron and
whipcord, finely formed, quick and alert.” He threw a word to one of his
heavy-faced attendants, then suddenly stood up and descended from his
throne. He came up and stood beside Watson.
Chick straightened. The prince was an inch the taller; his bare arms
long-muscled, lithe, powerful; under the pink skin Chick could see the
delicate, cat-like play of strength and vitality. He sensed the strength
of the man, his quick, eager, instinctive glance, his panther-like step
and certainty of graceful movement.
“Stranger,” spoke the Bar, “indeed you ARE an athlete! What is your
nationality--Kospian?”
“Neither Kospian nor D'Hartian; I am an American. True, there are some
who have said that I am built like a man; I pride myself that I can
conduct myself like one.”
“And speak impertinently.” Still in the best of humour, the prince
coolly reached out and felt Watson's biceps. His eyes became still
brighter. If not an admirer of decorum, he could appreciate firm flesh.
“Sirra! You ARE strong! Answer me--do you know anything about games of
violence?”
“Several. Anything you choose.”
But the prince shook his head. “Not so. I claim no unfair advantage; you
are well met, and opportune. Let it be a contest of your own choosing.
The greater honour to myself, the victor!”
But the little queen saw fit to interfere.
“Senestro, is this the code of the Bar? Is not your proposal unseemly to
so great a guest? Restrain your eagerness for strength and for muscle!
You have preferred charges against this man; now you would hurl your
body as well. Remember, I am the queen; I can command it of you.”
The Senestro bowed.
“Your wishes are my law, O Aradna.” Then, turning to Watson: “I am
over-eager, stranger. You are the best-built man I have seen for many
a circle. But I shall best you.” He paced to his throne and resumed his
seat. “Let him tell us his tale. I repeat, Geos, that for all his beauty
this one is an impostor. When he has spoken I shall confute him. I ask
only that in the end he be turned over to me.”
It was plain that the Thomahlia was blest with odd rulers. If the Bar
Senestro was a priest, he was clearly still more of a soldier. The fiery
challenge of the man struck an answering chord in Watson; he knew the
time must come when he should weigh himself up against this Alexander,
and it was anything but displeasing to him.
“What must I say and do?” he asked the Rhamda Geos. “What do they want
me to tell them?”
“Just what you have told me: tell them of the Nervina, and of the Rhamda
Avec. The prince is a man of the world, but from the Rhamdas you will
have justice.”
Whereat Chick addressed the Intellectuals. They seemed accustomed to the
outbursts of the handsome Bar, and were now waiting complacently. In
a few words Watson described the Nervina and Avec; their appearance,
manners--everything. Fortunately he did not have to dissemble. When he
had finished there was a faint murmur of approval.
“It is proven,” declared the girl queen. “It is truly my cousin, the
Nervina. I knew not the Rhamda, but from your faces it must have been
he, Senestro, what say you to this?”
But the Bar was totally unconvinced.
“All this is childish. Did I not say he is of our world--D'Hartian or
Kospian, or some other? Does not all Thomahlia know of the Nervina? Few
have seen the Rhamda Avec, but what of it? Some have. What this stranger
says proves nothing at all. I say, give him a test.”
“The test?” from Geos, in a hushed tone.
“Just that. There is none who knows the likeness of the Jarados; none
but the absent Avec. None among us has ever seen his image. It is a
secret to all save the High Rhamda. Yet, in cases like this, well may
the Leaf be opened.”
Watson, wondering what was meant, listened closely to the prince as he
continued: “It is written that there are times when all may see. Surely
this is such a time.
“Now let this stranger describe the Jarados. He says that he had seen
him; that he is the Prophet's prospective son-in-law. Good! Let him
describe the Jarados to us!
“Then open the Leaf! If he speaks true, we shall know him to be from the
Jarados. If he fail, then I shall claim him for purposes of my own.”
Whatever the motives of the Senestro, he surely had the genius of quick
decision. Watson knew that the moment had come to test his luck to the
uttermost. There was but one thing to do; he did it. He said to the
Rhamda Geos, in a tone of the utmost indifference:
“I am willing.”
Geos was distinctively relieved, “It is good, my lord. Tell us in simple
words. Describe the Jarados just as you have seen him, just as you would
have us see him. Afterwards we shall open the Leaf.” And in a lower
tone: “If you speak accurately I shall be vindicated, my lord. I doubt
not that you are a better man than the prince; but place your reliance
in the Truth; it will be one more proof of the occult, and of the Day
approaching.”
Which is all that Watson told. But first he breathed a prayer to One who
is above all things occult or physical. He did not understand where he
was nor how he had got there; he only knew that his fate was hanging on
a toss of chance.
He faced the Rhamdas without flinching; and half closing his eyes and
speaking very clearly, he searched his memory for what he recalled of
the old professor. He tried to describe him just as he had appeared that
day in the ethics class, when he made the great announcement; the trim,
stubby figure of Professor Holcomb, the pink, healthy skin, the wise,
grey, kindly eyes, and the close-cropped, pure white beard: all, just as
Chick had known him. One chance in millions; he took it.
“That is the Jarados as I have seen him; a short, elderly, wise, BEARDED
man.”
There was not a breath or a murmur in comment. All hung upon his words;
there was not a sound in the room as he ceased speaking, only the throb
of his own heart and the subtle pounding of caution in his veins. He had
spoken. If only there might be a resemblance!
The Geos stepped forward a pace. “It is well said. If the truth has been
spoken, there shall be room for no dispute. It shall be known throughout
all Thomahlia that the Chosen of the Jarados has spoken. Let the Leaf be
opened!”
Chick never knew just what happened, much less how it was accomplished.
He knew only that a black, opaque wave ran up the long windows, shutting
off the light, so that instantly the darkness of night enveloped
everything, blotting out all that maze of colour; it was the blackness
of the void. Then came a tiny light, a mere dot of flame, over on the
opposite wall; a pin-point of light it was, seemingly coming out of
a vast distance like an approaching star, growing gradually larger,
spreading out into a screen of radiance that presently was flashing
with intrinsic life. The corruscation grew brighter; little tufts of
brilliance shot out with all the stabbing suddenness of shooting stars.
To Chick it was exactly as though some god were pushing his way through
and out of fire. In the end the flame burst asunder, diminished into a
receding circle and sputtered out.
And in the place of the strange light there appeared the illuminated
figure of a man. Leaning forward, Chick rubbed his eyes and looked
again.
It was the bust of Professor Holcomb.