Behold! When the day is at hand, prepare ye!
For, when that day cometh, ye shall have signs and portents from the
world beyond. Wisdom cometh out of life, and life walketh out of wisdom.
Yea, in the manner of life and of spirit ye shall have them, and of
substance even like unto you yourselves.
And it shall come to pass in the last days, that we shall be on guard.
By these signs ye shall know them; even by the truths I have taught
thee. The way of life is an open door; wisdom and virtue are its keys.
And when the intelligence shall be lifted to the plane above--then shalt
thou know!
Mark ye well the Spot of Life! He that openeth it is the precursor of
judgment. Mark him well!
And thus shall the last days come to pass. See that ye are worthy, O
wise ones! For behold in those last days there shall come among ye--
The chosen of a line of kings. First there shall be one, and then there
shall be two; and the two shall stay but the one shall return.
The false ones. Them ye shall slay!
The four footed: The call to humility, sacrifice and devotion, whom ye
shall hold in reverence even as you hold me, the Jarados.
And on the last day of all--I, the Jarados!
Beware ye of sacrilege! Lest I take from ye all that I have given ye,
and the day be postponed--beware ye of sacrilege!
And if the false ones cometh not, ye shall know that I have held them.
Know ye the day!
Sixteen days from the day of the prophet, shall come the day of the
judgment; and the way shall be opened, on the last day, the sixteenth
day of the Jarados.
Hearken to the words of the Jarados, the prophet and mouthpiece of
the infinite intelligence, ruler of justice, peace, and love! So be it
forever!
Chick read it a second time. Like all prophecies, it was somewhat
Delphic; but he could get the general drift. In that golden script he
was looking into the heart of all Thomahlia--into its greatness, its
culture, its civilisation itself. It was the soul of the Blind Spot, the
reason and the wherefore of all about him.
He heard someone step up behind him, and he turned. It was the Senestro,
going over the words of the prophecy.
“Can you read it, Sir Phantom?” asked the handsome Bar. His black eyes
were twinkling with delight. “Have you read it all?”
He put a hand on Chick's shoulder. It was a careless act, almost
friendly. Either he had the heart of a devil or the chivalry of a
paladin. He pointed to a line:
“'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.'”
“And if I were the false one, you would slay me?” asked Watson.
“Aye, truly!” answered the splendid prince. “You are well made and
good to look upon. I shall hold you in my arms; I shall hear your bones
crack; it shall be sweeter music than that of the temple pheasants,
who never sing but for the Jarados. I shall slay you upon the Spot, Sir
Phantom!”
Watson turned on his heel. The ethics of the Senestro were not of his
own code. He was not afraid; he stood beside the Jan Lucar and gazed out
into the body of the temple. As far as he could see, under and past the
fourteen great pillars and right up to the far wall, the floor was a
vast carpet of humanity.
It was become dark. Presently a new kind of light began to glow far
overhead, gradually increasing in strength until the whole place was
suffused with a sun-like illumination. The Rhamda Geos began to speak.
“In the last day, in the Day of Life. We have the substance of
ourselves, and the words of the prophet. The Jarados has written his
prophecy in letters of gold, for all to see. 'The false ones. Them ye
shall slay.' It is the will of the Rhamdas that the great Bar Senestro
shall try the proof of the occult. On this, the first of the Sixteen
Days, the test shall be--on the Spot of Life!”
He turned away. The Bar Senestro stripped off his jewels, his
semi-armour, and stood clad in the manner of Watson. They advanced and
met in the centre of the dais, two athletes, lithe, strong, handsome,
their muscles aquiver with vitality and their skins silken with health.
Champions of two worlds, to wrestle for truth!
A low murmur arose, increasing until it filled the whole coliseum. The
silver-bronze pheasants flitted above the heads of all, flashing like
fragments of the spirit of light. And all of a sudden--
One of them fluttered down and lit on Watson's shoulder.
The murmur of the throng dropped to a dead silence. Next moment
a stranger thing happened. The little creature broke forth in
full-throated song.
Watson instantly remembered the words of the Bar Senestro: “They sing
but for the Jarados.” He quietly reached up and caught the songster
in his hand, and he held it up to the astonished crowd. Still the song
continued. Chick held him an instant longer, and then gave him a toss
high into the air. He shot across the temple, a streak of melody,
silver, dulcet, to the far corner of the giant building.
But the thing did not jar the Senestro.
“Well done, Sir Phantom! Anyhow, 'tis your last play! I would not have
it otherwise. I hope you can die as prettily! Are you ready?”
“Ready? What for?” retorted Watson. “Why, should I trouble myself with
preparations?”
But the Rhamda Geos had now come to his side.
“Do your best, my lord. I regret only that it must be to the death.
It is the first death contest in the Thomahlia for a thousand circles
(years). But the Senestro has challenged the prophecy. Prove that you
are not a false one! My heart is with you.”
It was a good word at a needed moment. Watson stepped over onto the
circular Spot of Life.
They were both barefooted. Evidently the Thomahlians fought in the old,
classic manner. The stone under Watson's feet was cool and invigorating.
He could sense anew that quiver of magnetism and strength. It sent a
thrill through his whole body, like the subtle quickening of life. He
felt vital, joyous, confident.
The Senestro was smiling, his eyes flashing with anticipation. His
muscled body was a network of soft movement. His step was catlike.
“What will it be?” inquired Watson. “Name your choice of destruction.”
But the Bar shook his head.
“Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner of your death, not I.
Particular I am not, nor selfish.”
“Make it wrestling, then,” in his most off-hand manner. He was a good
wrestler, and scientific.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Quite.”
“Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge of the Spot and turn
around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!”
Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his edge. He turned,
and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered seeing his
opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was spinning
in the clutch of a tiger. Even before they struck the stone, Chick could
feel the Senestro reaching for a death-hold.
And in that one second Watson knew that he was in the grip of his
master.
His mind functioned like lightning. His legs and arms flashed for the
counterhold that would save him. They struck the Spot and rolled over
and over. Chick caught his hold, but the Senestro broke it almost
instantly. Yet it had saved him; for a minute they spun around like a
pair of whirligigs. Watson kept on the defensive. He had not the speed
and skill of the other. It was no mere test to touch his shoulders;
it was a fight to the death; he was at a disadvantage. He worked
desperately.
When a man fights for his life he becomes superhuman. Watson was put to
something more than his skill; the sheer spirit of the Bar broke hold
after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like, subtle, vicious. Time
after time he spun Chick out of his defense and bore him down into
a hold of death. And each time Chick somehow wriggled out, and saved
himself by a new hold. The struggle became a blur--muscle, legs, the
lust for killing--and hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first
he got a hammer lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds
immediately.
Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro knew just a bit more. It
was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous convulsion,
silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and the low, stifled
exclamations of the onlookers.