“Get up, Vance,” said Mr. Wilde in a gentle voice. Vance rose as if
hypnotized. “He will do as we suggest now,” observed Mr. Wilde, and
opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the Imperial
Dynasty of America. Then in a kind and soothing murmur he ran over
the important points with Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes
were so blank and vacant that I imagined he had become half-witted,
and remarked it to Mr. Wilde who replied that it was of no consequence
anyway. Very patiently we pointed out to Vance what his share in
the affair would be, and he seemed to understand after a while. Mr.
Wilde explained the manuscript, using several volumes on Heraldry,
to substantiate the result of his researches. He mentioned the
establishment of the Dynasty in Carcosa, the lakes which connected
Hastur, Aldebaran and the mystery of the Hyades. He spoke of Cassilda
and Camilla, and sounded the cloudy depths of Demhe, and the Lake of
Hali. “The scolloped tatters of the King in Yellow must hide Yhtill
forever,” he muttered, but I do not believe Vance heard him. Then by
degrees he led Vance along the ramifications of the Imperial family,
to Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of Truth, to Aldones, and
then tossing aside his manuscript and notes, he began the wonderful
story of the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled I watched him. He threw
up his head, his long arms were stretched out in a magnificent gesture
of pride and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their sockets like two
emeralds. Vance listened stupefied. As for me, when at last Mr. Wilde
had finished, and pointing to me, cried, “The cousin of the King!” my
head swam with excitement.
Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I explained to Vance why
I alone was worthy of the crown and why my cousin must be exiled or
die. I made him understand that my cousin must never marry, even after
renouncing all his claims, and how that least of all he should marry
the daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire and bring England into the
question. I showed him a list of thousands of names which Mr. Wilde had
drawn up; every man whose name was there had received the Yellow Sign
which no living human being dared disregard. The city, the state, the
whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the Pallid Mask.
The time had come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the
whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa.
Vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands. Mr. Wilde drew
a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday’s _Herald_ with a bit of lead
pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk’s rooms. Then he wrote out the order
and affixed the seal, and shaking like a palsied man I signed my first
writ of execution with my name Hildred-Rex.
Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and unlocking the cabinet, took a
long square box from the first shelf. This he brought to the table and
opened. A new knife lay in the tissue paper inside and I picked it up
and handed it to Vance, along with the order and the plan of Hawberk’s
apartment. Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he could go; and he went,
shambling like an outcast of the slums.
I sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the square tower of
the Judson Memorial Church, and finally, gathering up the manuscript
and notes, took my hat and started for the door.
Mr. Wilde watched me in silence. When I had stepped into the hall I
looked back. Mr. Wilde’s small eyes were still fixed on me. Behind him,
the shadows gathered in the fading light. Then I closed the door behind
me and went out into the darkening streets.
I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I was not hungry. A wretched,
half-starved creature, who stood looking across the street at the
Lethal Chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of misery. I
gave him money, I don’t know why, and he went away without thanking me.
An hour later another outcast approached and whined his story. I had a
blank bit of paper in my pocket, on which was traced the Yellow Sign,
and I handed it to him. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and
then with an uncertain glance at me, folded it with what seemed to me
exaggerated care and placed it in his bosom.
The electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and the new moon
shone in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome waiting in
the square; I wandered from the Marble Arch to the artillery stables
and back again to the lotos fountain. The flowers and grass exhaled
a fragrance which troubled me. The jet of the fountain played in
the moonlight, and the musical splash of falling drops reminded me
of the tinkle of chained mail in Hawberk’s shop. But it was not so
fascinating, and the dull sparkle of the moonlight on the water brought
no such sensations of exquisite pleasure, as when the sunshine played
over the polished steel of a corselet on Hawberk’s knee. I watched the
bats darting and turning above the water plants in the fountain basin,
but their rapid, jerky flight set my nerves on edge, and I went away
again to walk aimlessly to and fro among the trees.
The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the
officers’ windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sallyport was
constantly filled with troopers in fatigue, carrying straw and harness
and baskets filled with tin dishes.
Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I wandered up
and down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was nearly time.
The lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was
closed, and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side
wicket, leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on
the night air. The square had become very silent. The last homeless
loiterer had been driven away by the grey-coated park policeman, the
car tracks along Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound which
broke the stillness was the stamping of the sentry’s horse and the ring
of his sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks, the officers’
quarters were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed
before the bay windows. Twelve o’clock sounded from the new spire of
St. Francis Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a
figure passed through the wicket beside the portcullis, returned the
salute of the sentry, and crossing the street entered the square and
advanced toward the Benedick apartment house.
“Louis,” I called.
The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight toward me.
“Is that you, Hildred?”
“Yes, you are on time.”