Once more Watson had taken the kind of chance he preferred—a slender one. He took the chance that these people, however occult and advanced they might be, were still human enough to build their prophecy out of an old foundation. If he were right, then the person of the Jarados would be inviolable. If the professor were prisoner, held somewhere in secret, and it got noised about that he was the true prophet returned—it would not only give Holcomb immense prestige, but at the same time render the position of his captors untenable.
Chick needed no great discernment to see that he had touched a vital spot. The philosophy of the Rhamdas was firmly bound up with spiritism; they had gone far in science, and had passed out of mere belief into the deeper, finer understanding that went behind the shadow for proof. Certainly Watson inwardly rejoiced to see Rhamda Geos incredulous, his keen face whitening like that of one who has just heard sacrilege uttered—to see Geos rise in his place, grip the table tightly, and hear him exclaim:
“The Jarados! Did you say—the Jarados? He has come amongst us, and we have not known? You are perfectly sure of this?”
“I am,” stated Watson, and met the other's keen scrutiny without flinching.
Would the game work? At least it promised action; and now that he had the old feeling of himself he was anxious to get under way. Any feeling of fear was gone now. He calmly nodded his head.
“Yes, it is so. But sit down. I have still a bit more to tell you.”
The Rhamda resumed his seat. Clearly, his reverence had been greatly augmented in the past few seconds. From that time on there was a marked difference in his manner; and his speech, when he addressed Chick, contained the expression “my lord”—an expression that Watson found it easy enough to become accustomed to.
“Did you doubt, Rhamda Geos, that I came from the Jarados?”
“We did not doubt. We were certain.”
“I see. You were not expecting the Jarados.”
“Not yet, my lord. The coming of the Jarados shall be close to the Day of the Judgment. But it could not be so soon; there were to be signs and portents. We were to solve the problem first; we were to know the reason of the shadow and the why of the spirit. The wisdom of the Rhamda Avec told that the day approaches; he had opened the Spot of Life and gone through it; but he had NOT sent the fact and the substance.” Watson smiled. There was just enough superstition, it seemed, beneath all the Rhamda's wisdom to make him tractable. However, Chick asked:
“Tell me: as a learned man, as a Rhamda, do you believe in the prophecy implicitly?”
“Yes, my lord. I am a spiritist; and if spiritism is truth, then the Jarados was genuine, and his prophecy is true. After all, my lord, it is not a case of legend, but of history. The Jarados came at a time of high civilisation, when men would see and understand him; he gave us his teaching in records, and imposed his laws upon the Thomahlia. Then he departed—through the Spot of Life.”
And the Rhamda Geos went on to say that the teachings of the Jarados had been moral as well as intellectual. Moreover, after he had formulated his laws, he wrote out his judgment.
“What was that?”
“An exhortation, my lord, that we were to give proof of our appreciation of intelligence. We were to use it, and to prove ourselves worthy of it by lifting ourselves up to the level of the Spot of Life. In other words, the spot would be opened when, and only when, we had learned the secrets of the occult, and—had opened the Spot ourselves!”
Watson thought he understood partly. He asked:
“And that is why you doubt me?”
“You, my lord? Not so! You were found in the Temple of the Bell and Leaf; not on the Spot itself, to be sure, but on the floor of the temple. You were, both in your person and in your dress, of another world; you had been promised by the Rhamda Avec; and, in a sense, you were a part of the prophecy. We accepted you!”
“But I speak your language. Account for that, Geos.”
“It need not be accounted for, my lord. We accept it as fact. The affinity of spirit would not be bound by the limitation of artificial speech. That you should talk the Thomahlia language is no more strange than that Rhamda Avec, when he passed into your world, should speak your tongue.”
“We call our language English,” supplied Watson. “It is the tongue of the Jarados and of myself.”
“Tell me of the Jarados, my lord!” with renewed eagerness. “In the other world—what is he?”
It was Chick's opportunity. By telling the simple truth about Dr. Holcomb he would enhance himself in the eyes of Rhamda Geas.
“In the other world—we call it America—the Jaradas is a Rhamda much like yourself, the head and chief of many Rhamdas sitting in a great institution devoted to intelligence. It is called the University of California.”
“And this California; what is it, my lord?”
“A name,” returned Chick. “Immediately on the other side of the Spot is a region called California.”
“The promised land, my lord!”
“The promised land indeed. There are some who call it paradise, even there.” And for good measure he proceeded to tell much of his own land, of the woods, the rivers, the cities, animals, mountains, the sky, the moon, and the sun. When he came to the sun he explained that no man dared to look at it continuously with the bare eyes. Its great heat and splendour astounded Geos.
Concerning himself he nonchalantly stated that he was the fiance of Holcomb's daughter; that is, son-in-law-to-be of the prophet Jarados; that he was sort of Junior Rhamda. He declared that he had come from the occult Rhamdas, through the other side of the Spot, in search of the Jarados who had gone before. As to his blankness up to now, and his perplexity—he was but a Junior; and the Spot had naturally benumbed his senses. Even now, he apologised, it was difficult to know and to recall everything clearly.
Through it all the Rhamda Geos Listened in something like awe. He was hearing of wonders never before guessed in the Thomahlia. As the prospective son-in-law of the Jarados, Watson automatically lifted himself to a supreme height, so great that, could he only hold himself up to it, he would have a prestige second only to that of the prophet himself.
All of a sudden he thought of a question. It gripped him with dread, the dread of the unknown. The question was one of TIME. “How long have I been here, Rhamda Geos?”
“Over eleven months, by our system of reckoning. You were found on the floor of the temple three hundred and fifty-seven days ago; you were in a lifeless condition; you must have been there some hours, my lord, before we discovered you.”
“Eleven months!” It had seemed but that many minutes. “And I was unconscious—”
“All the time, my lord. Had we caught you immediately upon your coming, we could have brought you around within three days, but in the circumstances it was impossible to restore you before we did. You have been under the care of the greatest specialists in all Thomahlia.”
Geos himself had been one of these. “The council of Rhamdas went into special session, my lord, immediately after your materialisation, and has been sitting almost continually since. And now that you are revived, they are waiting in person for you to show yourself.
“They accept you. They do not know who you are, my lord; none of us has guessed even a part of the truth. The entire council awaits!”
But Chick wanted more. Besides, he looked at his clothing.
“I would have my own garments, Geos; also, whatever else was found on my person.”
For Watson was thinking of a small but powerful pistol, an automatic, that he had carried on the night when he fell through the Blind Spot. This question of materiality was still a puzzle; if he himself had survived there was a chance that the firearm had done the same. It might and it might not preclude the occult. Anyway, he treasured the thought of that automatic; with it in his possession he would not be bare-handed in case of emergency.
They returned to the room in which Chick had awakened. The Rhamda left him. A few moments later he came back with a squad of men. Chick noted their discipline, movement, and uniforms, and classed them as soldiers. Two men were stationed outside the door—one, a stout, dark individual in a blue uniform; and the other a lithe, athletic chap, blond and blue-eyed, wearing a bright crimson dress. Chick instinctively preferred both man and garb in crimson; there was a touch of honour, of lightness and strength that just suited him. The other was dark, heavy and sinister.
Both wore sandals, and upon their heads curious shakos, made of the finest down, not fur. Both displayed a heavy silken braid looped from one shoulder. Each carried a spear-like weapon, of some shining black material, straight-tapered to a needle-point; but no other arms.
Watson pointed to the two uniforms.
“What is the significance, Geos?”
“One is from the queen, my lord; the other from Bar Senestro. The blue is the cloth of the Bars; the red, that of the queens. The Bar and the queen send this bodyguard with their respective compliments.”
Chick took the bundle that Geos had brought, and proceeded to don his own clothes, finding deep satisfaction in the fact that they had arrived as intact as he. He felt carefully in his hip pocket; the automatic was still there, likewise the extra magazine of cartridges that he had carried about with him on that night.
In his other pockets he found two packets of cigarettes, a pouch of tobacco, some papers, a few coins, a little money and two photographs, one of Bertha and the other of her father. Not a thing had been disturbed.
He announced himself ready.
The Rhamda conducted him down the corridor, which he found to be lined with guards; red on one side, blue on the other. These men fell in behind in two parallel files, one of the one colour and one of the other.
It was a building of great size. The corridors were long and high, all with the wide-coved ceiling, and of colours that melted from one shade to another as they turned, not corners, but curves. Apparently each colour had its own suggestive reason. Such rooms as Chick could look into were uniformly large, beautiful, and distinctly lighted.
The guard moved in silent rhythm; the chief sound was that made by Watson's leather-heeled shoes, drowning out, for once, the everlasting tinkling undertone of those unseen fairy-bells; that running cadence, never ceasing, silver, liquid, like the soul of sound.
Though Watson walked with head erect, he had eyes for every little thing he passed. He noted the material of the structure and tried to name it; neither plaster nor stone, the walls were highly polished and, somehow or other, capable of emitting perfume—light and wholesome, not heavy and oppressive. And in dark passages the walls glowed.
The corridor widened, and with a graceful curve opened upon a wide stairway that descended, or rather sank—to use Watson's own words for the feeling—into the depths of the building. To the right of one landing was a large window reaching to the floor; its panes were clear and not frosted as had been the others.
Chick got his first glimpse here of what lay outside—an iridescent landscape, at first view astonishingly like an ocean of opals; for it was of many hues, red and purple and milky white, splashed violantin blue and fluorescence—a maze and shimmer of dancing, joyful colours, whirring in an uncertainty of polychromatic harmony. Such was his first fleeting impression.
At the next landing he looked closer. It was not unlike a monster bowl of bubbles; the same illusion of movement, the same delicacy and witchery of colour, only here the sensation was not that of decomposition but of life; of flowers, delicate as the rainbow, tenuous, sinuous, breathing—weaving in a serpentine maze of daedalian hues; long tendrils of orchidian beauty, lifting, weaving, drooping—a vast sea of equatorial bloom; but—no trees.
“This is our landscape,” spoke the Rhamda. “According to the Jarados, it is not like that of the next world—your world, my lord. After you meet the Rhamdas, I shall take you into the Mahovisal for a closer view of it all.”
They reached the bottom of the stairway. Chick noted the architecture in the entrance-way at this point; the seeming solidness of structure, as if the whole had been chiselled, not built. The vestibule was really a hall, domed and high, large enough to shelter a hundred. Like the corridor outside Chick's room, it was lined with a row each of red and blue uniformed guards.
Invariably the one belonged to the blond, lithe, quick-feeling type, the others heavy, sturdy, formidable. The extremities of the two lines converged on an oval-topped doorway, very large, having above it a design conventionalised from the three-leafed clover. One leaf was scarlet, one blue, the other green.
The door opened. The guards halted. Geos stepped aside with a bow, and Watson strode forward into the presence of the Council of the Rhamdas.
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.
Chick gasped. Of all that assemblage—Rhamdas, guards, the occupants of the two thrones—he himself was the most astounded. Was the great professor in actual fact the true Jarados? If not, how explain this miracle? But if he were, how to explain the duality, the identity? Surely, it could not be sheer chance!
Fortunately for Chick, it was dark. All eyes were fixed on the trim figure which occupied the space of the clover-leaf on the rear wall. Except for Chick's strangled gasp, there was only the hushed silence of reverence, deep and impressive.
Then another dot appeared. From its position, Watson took it to come from another leaf of the clover; another light approaching out of the void and cutting through the blackness exactly as the first had come. It grew and spread until it had filled the whole leaf; then, again the bursting of the flare, the diminishing of the light, and its disappearance in a thin rim at the edge. And this time there was revealed—
A handsome brown-haired DOG.
Watson of course, could not understand. The silence held; he could feel the Rhamda Geos at his side, and hear him murmur something which, in itself, was quite unintelligible:
“The four-footed one! The call to humility, sacrifice, and unselfishness! The four-footed one!”
That was all. It was a shaggy shepherd dog, with a pointed nose and one ear cocked up and the other down, very wisely inquisitive. Chick had seen similar dogs many times, but he could not account for this one; certainly not in such a place. What had it to do with the Jarados?
Still the darkness. It gave him a chance to think. He wondered, rapidly, how he could link up such a creature with his description of the Jarados. What could be the purpose of a canine in occult philosophy? Or, was the whole thing, after all, mere blundering chance?
This is what bothered Chick. He did not know how to adjust himself; life, place, sequence, were all out of order. Until he could gather exact data, he must trust to intuition as before.
The two pictures vanished simultaneously. Down came the black waves from the windows, gradually, and in a moment the room was once more flooded with that mellow radiance. The Rhamda Geos stepped forward as a murmur of awed approval arose from the assembly. There was no applause. One does not applaud the miraculous. The Geos took his hand.
“It is proven!” he declared. Then, to the Rhamdas: “Is there any question, my brothers?”
But no word came from the floor. Seemingly superstition had triumphed over all else. The men of learning turned none but reverent faces toward Watson.
He forebore to glance at the Bar Senestro. Despite the triumph he was apprehensive of the princes's keen genius. An agnostic is seldom converted by what could be explained away as mere coincidence. Moreover, as it ultimately appeared, the Bar now had more than one reason for antagonising the man who claimed to be the professor's prospective son-in-law.
“Is there any question?” repeated Rhamda Geos.
But to the surprise of Chick, it came from the queen. She was standing before her throne now. Around her waist a girdle of satin revealed the tender frailty of her figure. She gave Watson a close scrutiny, and then addressed the Geos:
“I want to put one question, Rhamda. The stranger seems to be a goodly young man. He has come from the Jarados. Tell me, is he truly of the chosen?”
But a clear, derisive laugh from the opposite throne interrupted the answer. The Bar stood up, his black eyes dancing with mocking laughter.
“The chosen, O Aradna? The chosen? Do not allow yourself to be tricked by a little thing! I myself have been chosen by the inherited law of the Thomahlia!” Then to Chick: “I see, Sir Phantom, that our futures are to be intertwined with interest!”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“No? Very good; if you are really come out of superstition, then I shall teach you the value of materiality. You are well made and handsome, likewise courageous. May the time soon come when you can put your mettle to the test in a fair conflict!”
“It is your own saying, O Senestro!” warned Geos. “You must abide by my Lord's reply.”
“True; and I shall abide. I know nothing of black magic, or any other. But I care not. I know only that I cannot accept this stranger as a spirit. I have felt his muscles, and I know his strength; they are a man's, and a Thomahlian's.”
“Then you do not abide?”
“Yes, I do. That is, I do not claim him. He has won his freedom. But as for endorsing him—no, not until he has given further proof. Let him come to the Spot of Life. Let him take the ordeal. Let him qualify on the Day of the Prophet.”
“My lord, do you accept?”
Watson had no idea what the “ordeal” might be, nor what might be the significance of the day. But he could not very well refuse. He spoke as lightly as he could.
“Of course. I accept anything.” Then, addressing the prince: “One word, O Senestro.”
“Speak up, Sir Phantom!”
“Bar Senestro—what have you done with the Jarados?”
An instant's stunned silence greeted this stab. It was broken by the prince.
“The Jarados!” His voice was unruffled. “What know I of the Jarados?”
“Take care! You have seen him—you know his power!”
“You have a courageous sort of impertinence!”
“I have determination and knowledge! Bar Senestro, I have come for the Jarados!” Chick paused for effect. “Now what think you? Am I of the chosen?”
He had meant it as a deliberate taunt, and so it was taken. The Bar shot to his feet. Not that he was angered; his straight, handsome form was kingly, and for all his impulsiveness there was a certain real majesty about his every pose.
“You are of the chosen. It is well; you have given spice to the taunt! I would not have it otherwise. Forget not your courage on the Day of the Prophet!”
With that he stepped gracefully, superbly from the dais beneath his throne. He bowed to the Aradna, to Geos, to Chick and to the assembly—and was gone. The blue guard followed in silence.
The rest of the ordeal was soon done. Nothing more was said about the Jarados, nor of what the Bar Senestro had brought up. There were a few questions about the world he had quit, questions which put no strain upon his imagination to answer. He was out of the deep water for the present.
When the assembly dissolved Chick was conducted back to the apartments upstairs. Not to his old room, however, but to an adjoining suite, a magnificent place—that would have done honour to a prince. But Chick scarcely noted the beauty of the place. His attention flew at once to something for which he longed—an immense globe.
Chick spun it around eagerly upon its axis. The first thing that he looked for was San Francisco—or, rather, North America. If he was on the earth he wanted to know it! Surely the oceans and continents would not change.
But he was doomed to disappointment. There was not a familiar detail. Outside of a network of curved lines indicating latitude and longitude, and the accustomed tilt of the polar axis, the globe was totally strange! So strange that Chick could not decide which was water and which land.
After a bit of puzzling Chick ran across a yellow patch marked with some strange characters which, upon examination, were translated in some unknown manner within his subconscious mind, to “D'Hartia.” Another was lettered “Kospia.”
Assuming that these were land—and there were a few other, smaller ones, of the same shade—then the land area covered approximately three-fifths of the globe. Inferentially the green remainder, or two-fifths, was the water or ocean covered area. Such a proportion was nearly the precise reverse of that obtaining on the earth. Chick puzzled over other strange names—H'Alara, Mal Somnal, Bloudou San, and the like. Not one name or outline that he could place!
How could he make his discovery fit with the words of Dr. Holcomb, and with what philosophy he knew? Somehow there was too much life, too much reality, to fit in with any spiritistic hypothesis. He was surrounded by real matter, atomic, molecular, cellular. He was certain that if he were put to it he could prove right here every law from those put forth by Newton to the present.
It was still the material universe; that was certain. Therefor it was equally certain that the doctor had made a most prodigious discovery. But—what was it? What was the law that had fallen out of the Blind Spot?
He gave it up, and stepped to one of the suite's numerous windows. They were all provided with clear glass. Now was his opportunity for an uninterrupted, leisurely survey of the world about him.
As before, he noted the maze of splendid, dazzling opalescence, all the colours of the spectrum blending, weaving, vibrant, like a vast plain of smooth, Gargantuan jewels. Then he made out innumerable round domes, spread out in rows and in curves, without seeming order or system; BUILDINGS, every roof a perfect gleaming dome, its surface fairly alive with the reflected light of that amazing sun. Of such was the landscape made.
As before, he could hear the incessant undertone of vague music, of rhythmical, shimmering and whispering sound. And the whole air was laden with the hint of sweet scents; tinged with the perfume of attar and myrrh—of a most delicate ambrosia.
He opened the window.
For a moment he stood still, the air bathing his face, the unknown fragrance filling his nostrils. The whole world seemed thrumming with that hitherto faint quiver of sound. Now it was resonant and strong, though still only an undertone. He looked below him; as he did so, something dropped from the side of the window opening—a long, delicate tendril, sinuous and alive. It touched his face, and then—It drooped, drooped like a wounded thing. He reached out his hand and plucked it, wondering. And he found, at its tip, a floating crimson blossom as delicate as the frailest cobweb, so inconceivably delicate that it wilted and crumbled at the slightest touch.
Chick thrust his head out of the window. The whole building, from ground to dome, was covered—waving, moving, tenuous, a maze of colour—with orchids!
He had never dreamed of anything so beautiful, or so splendid. Everywhere these orchids; to give them the name nearest to the unknown one. As far as he could see, living beauty!
And then he noticed something stranger still.
From the petals and the foliage about him, little clouds of colour wafted up, like mists of perfume, forever rising and intermittently settling. It was mysteriously harmonious, continuous—like life itself. Chick looked closer, and listened. And then he knew.
These mists were clouds of tiny, multi-coloured insects.
He looked down farther, into the streets. They were teeming with life, with motion. He was in a city whose size made it a true metropolis. All the buildings were large, and, although of unfamiliar architecture, undeniably of a refined, advanced art. Without exception, their roofs were domed. Hence the effect of a sea of bubbles.
Directly below, straight down from his window, was a very broad street. From it at varying angles ran a number of intersecting avenues. The height of his window was great—he looked very closely, and made out two lines of colour lining and outlining the street surrounding the apartments.
On the one side the line was blue, on the other crimson; they were guards. And where the various avenues intersected cables must have been stretched; for these streets were packed and jammed with a surging multitude, which the guards seemed engaged in holding back. As far up the avenues as Chick could see, the seething mass of fellow creatures extended, a gently pulsing vari-coloured potential commotion.
As he looked one of the packed streets broke into confusion. He could see the guards wheeling and running into formation; from behind, other platoons rushed up reinforcements. The great crowd was rolling forward, breaking on the edge of the spear-armed guards like the surf of a rolling sea.
Chick had a sudden thought. Were they not looking up at his window? He could glimpse arms uplifted and hands pointed. Even the guards, those held in reserve, looked up. Then—such was the distance—the rumble of the mob reached his ears; at the same time, spreading like a grass fire, the commotion broke out in another street, to another and another, until the air was filled with the new undertone of countless human tongues.
Chick was fascinated. The thing was over-strange. While he looked and listened the whole scene turned to conflict; the voice of the throng became ominous. The guards still held the cables, still beat back the populace. Could they hold out, wondered Chick idly; and what was it all about?
Something touched his shoulder. He wheeled. One of the tall, red-uniformed guards was standing beside him. Watson instinctively drew back, and as he did so the other stepped forward, touched the snap, and closed the window.
“What's the idea? I was just getting interested!”
The soldier nodded pleasantly, respectfully—reverently.
“Orders from below, my lord. Were you to remain at that window it would take all the guards in the Mahovisal to keep back the Thomahlians.”
“Why?” Chick was astonished.
“There are a million pilgrims in the city, my lord, who have waited months for just one glimpse of you.”
Watson considered. This was a new and a dazing aspect of the affair. Evidently the expression on his face told the soldier that some explanation would not be amiss.
“The pilgrims are almost innumerable, my lord. They are all of the one great faith. They are, my lord, the true believers, the believers in the Day.”
The Day! Instantly Watson recalled Senestro's use of the expression. He sensed a valuable clue. He caught and held the soldier's eye.
“Tell me,” commanded Chick. “What is this Day of which you speak!”