Endor, from the first, had felt that he would not be able to get free.
And now, his protest made, his own position fully disclosed, he saw
that for the time being, at any rate, there was nothing more that he
could do.
In the moments that immediately followed, a mind cruelly torn became a
house divided against itself. One part of his brain, wherein lurked the
eternal verities, assured him that this illicit assembly, this Council
of Seven, was no place for John Endor. And yet in another part of his
ethos, an influence, alien, but of extreme potency, was also at work.
The cold logic of the matter was that on the issue that had been raised
Lien Weng and his associates were perfectly right. In a matter of this
kind, no man could be permitted to forswear allegiance. That was only
just and fair. And it was reasonable that one who did so must pay a
full penalty. The question of questions now for John Endor, or at least
for the political part of a mind-at-war, was how, when, in what fashion
must the penalty be paid?
If, following at once upon his protest he withdrew from the
deliberations of the Council, he put himself irrevocably out of
court. On the other hand, if he stayed where he was and bore a part
in its transactions, he would be committed by implication to any act
upon which it might decide. The problem for a man faced with such a
far-reaching issue was almost insoluble, but, after a moment of intense
emotion, some deep instinct of policy called upon him to remain.
The hour which followed in the beautiful but smoke-laden Busshe Court
dining room had an entrancing interest for John Endor. Nothing could
have been more severely business-like than the methods of the Council
of Seven. In a few words, chosen with much skill, Lien Weng made
everything quite clear.
Saul Hartz had ignored the recommendations of the Society of the
Friends of Peace and the period of grace had now expired. And, in
accordance with the rules, by which all present were under a solemn
pact to abide, this man, a direct menace to the peace of the world,
must die.
The Seven differed in one instance from the body which had adjudicated
recently in the matter of William Garland, the notorious Labor Leader,
who had chosen also to defy the Society. D’Alvarez, better known as El
Santo, upon whom had devolved the task of doing Garland to death, had
carried it out successfully. He had therefore been granted from these
deliberations the release, which by the laws of the Society, he was
entitled to claim. In his stead appeared the Society’s most recent and
not least important recruit, John Endor.
So much, in a brief summary, Lien Weng made clear. It now remained for
the seven men sitting round the table to devise a means of doing Saul
Hartz to death. In such cases the practice was, under a veil of strict
secrecy to draw lots as to who must bear this terrible burden.
The procedure was for each member of the Council to write his name on
a slip of paper, fold it up and place it in a small black velvet bag.
After this receptacle had been shaken by all in turn, the last comer to
the deliberations of the Council was allowed to draw one name from the
bag. It was then shaken again by the six members whose names remained,
and then the person whose name had been drawn was required to take from
the bag a second slip of paper. Upon this was to be found the name of
him who in accordance with the Society’s rules must do its will.
As soon as Lien Weng had explained what the procedure was and before
any part of it could be set in motion, John Endor rose a second time
to speak. He now addressed himself mainly to George Hierons the
American, and to his own countryman, Roland Holles. In the stress of
the moment he did not hesitate to appeal to them as fellow members of
the Anglo-Saxon world, men of his own race and blood, white men, men of
western training and ideas to whom such proceedings as these must be
subversive in the last degree.
The appeal, brief as it was, had all the cogency of an orator finely
skilled in the art of appealing to the emotions. Speaking with absolute
conviction, his words, it was clear, made a considerable impression
upon those to whom they were addressed. The Frenchman and the Italian
also felt their impact, but Lien Weng and Bandar Ali could not conceal
a deep resentment in spite of the mask of calm politeness with which
they tried to cover it.
“Believing as we do,” were Endor’s final words, “that this man, Saul
Hartz, is the incarnation of evil and that he is a threat to the future
of mankind, I am now convinced that the only true way of removing
this dark shadow is to set in apposition to it the idea of God. Eight
weeks ago, when I took my vow, for the moment I had lost my vision of
the Eternal. It has now returned to me and I see that, as at present
constituted, the Society of the Friends of Peace, albeit inspired by
the highest of all human motives, cannot hope to achieve its aim.”
Endor’s protest made, he sat down again at the table. He must now
abide the issue. Clairvoyantly he awaited the slow unfolding of an odd
ritual. The proceedings began with curious solemnity. As the latest
member of the Council of Seven, the task devolved upon himself of
drawing from the velvet bag the first slip of paper.
Should he or should he not bear his part? It was a momentous decision
to have to take. But there shot through his mind a clear perception
of the fact that there was really no alternative. He was under oath to
obey the rules of the Society or pay the heaviest penalty of all.
One glance at the faces around the table told him quite plainly that
the penalty would be exacted. These men were not to be trifled with. He
would die like a rat in a trap. And such an exit would not save Saul
Hartz, nor would it help the future of mankind.
On the spur of the moment Endor had to decide. By a withdrawal now
from the Council of Seven he would gain nothing and yet he would lose
his life. Was he ready to lose it? Was he ready to lose it without a
struggle for the vindication of his ideals? Automatically, yet with a
subtle sense of coercion from the powerful minds around him, he dipped
his hand into the velvet bag and drew out one of the slips of paper.
Unfolding the strip with a feeling of irresponsibility a little bizarre
he found that on it was written the name George Hierons.
The rules now required that upon the American should devolve the duty
of taking from the velvet bag the name of him who was called to a
dreadful task.
A hush fell upon the table. In a silence that was physical torture to
more than one around that bright mahogany, the strings at the bag’s
mouth were pulled tight, and then the bag itself was handed to George
Hierons.
In this moment of exquisite torment, it was as if something broke
inside John Endor’s heart.
Even before the second slip was drawn from the bag, and the name it
bore was made known, Endor realized, as if by the magic of an occult
power, that in an especial manner Fate had marked him down. Before the
impassive American opened this paper and announced its contents, the
latest member of the Council saw and heard his own name: