{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_21127/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_21127","id":"gutenberg_21127","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21127","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Cults -- Fiction","Impostors and imposture -- Fiction","Inheritance and succession -- Fiction","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","Uncles -- Fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Storm, and the Project Gutenberg Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 21127-h.htm or 21127-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/1/2/21127/21127-h/21127-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/1/2/21127/21127-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE MYSTICS\n\nA Novel\n\nby\n\nKATHERINE CECIL THURSTON\n\nAuthor of\n\"The Masquerader\" \"The Gambler\"\n\nIllustrated\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: See Chap. VII \"THE PROPHET WITH HIS FIXED GAZE UPON THE\nSCITSYM\"]\n\n\n\nHarper & Brothers Publishers\nNew York and London\nMCMVII\n\nCopyright, 1904, by Katherine Cecil Thurston.\nAll rights reserved.\nPublished April, 1907.\n\n\n\n\n                 To my Cousin\n              Nancy Inez Pollock\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n   \"THE PROPHET WITH HIS FIXED GAZE UPON THE SCITSYM\" _Frontispiece_\n\n   \"THE FIGURE OF HIS UNCLE ... SHOWED TALL AND\n   ANGULAR IN THE APERTURE\"                           _Facing p._ 20\n\n   \"HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES INTO\n   HIS FINGERS\"                                            \"      40\n\n   \"ACROSS THE PROPHET'S BREAST, IN MARKS OF A CRUEL\n   LACERATION, RAN THE SYMBOLIC OCTAGONAL FIGURE OF\n   THE MYSTIC SECT\"                                        \"      56\n\n   \"WITH A FRESH BURST OF TEARS, SHE TURNED AND FLUNG\n   HERSELF UPON THE COUCH\"                                 \"     116\n\n   \"HER HAND WAS TREMBLING AS SHE RAISED THE HEAVY\n   KNOCKER\"                                                \"     136\n\n   \"'I AM IN NEED OF HELP ... AND YOU CAN HELP ME'\"        \"     146\n\n   \"SHE SAW THE FIGURE OF THE PROPHET ... ATTENDED BY\n   THE PRECURSOR AND THE SIX ARCH-MYSTICS\"                 \"     158\n\n\n\n\nTHE MYSTICS\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nOf all the sensations to which the human mind is a prey, there is none\nso powerful in its finality, so chilling in its sense of an impending\nevent as the knowledge that Death--grim, implacable Death--has cast his\nshadow on a life that custom and circumstance have rendered familiar.\nWhatever the personal feeling may be--whether dismay, despair, or\nrelief--no man or woman can watch that advancing shadow without a\nquailing at the heart, an individual shrinking from the terrible,\nnatural mystery that we must all face in turn--each for himself and each\nalone.\n\nIn a gaunt house on the loneliest point where the Scottish coast\noverlooks the Irish Sea, John Henderson was watching his uncle die. In\nthe plain, whitewashed room where the sick man lay, a fire was burning\nand a couple of oil-lamps shed an uncertain glow; but outside, the wind\nroared inland from the shore, and the rain splashed in furious showers\nagainst the windows of the house. It was a night of tumult and darkness;\nbut neither the old man who lay waiting for the end nor the young man\nwho watched that end approaching gave any heed to the turmoil of the\nelements. Each was self-engrossed.\n\nExcept for an occasional rasping cough, or a slow, indrawn breath, no\nsign came from the small iron bedstead on which the dying man lay. His\nhard, emaciated face was set in an impenetrable mask; his glazed eyes\nwere fixed immovably on a distant portion of the ceiling; and his hands\nlay clasped upon his breast, covering some object that depended from\nhis neck.\n\nHe had lain thus since the doctor from the neighboring town had braved\nthe rising storm and ridden over to see him in the fall of the evening;\nand no accentuation of the gale that lashed the house, no increase in\nthe roar of the ocean three hundred yards away, had power to interrupt\nhis lethargy.\n\nIn curious contrast was the expression that marked his nephew's face. An\nextraordinary suppressed energy was visible in every line of John\nHenderson's body as he sat crouching over the fire; and a look of\nirrepressible excitement smoldered in the eyes that gazed into the\nglowing coals. He was barely twenty-three years old, but the\nself-control that comes from endurance and privation sat unmistakably on\nhis knitted brows and closed lips. He was neither handsome of feature\nnor graceful of figure, yet there was something more striking and\ninteresting than either grace or beauty in the strong, youthful form\nand the strong, intelligent face. For a long time he retained his\ncrouching seat on the wooden stool that stood before the hearth; then at\nlast the activity at work within his mind made further inaction\nintolerable. He rose and turned towards the bed.\n\nThe dying man lay motionless, awaiting the final summons with that\naloofness that suggests a spirit already partially extricated from its\ncovering of flesh. His glassy eyes were still fixed and immovable save\nfor an occasional twitching of the eyelids; his pallid lips were drawn\nback from his strong, prominent teeth; and the skin about his temples\nlooked shrivelled and sallow. The doctor's parting words came sharply to\nthe younger man's mind.\n\n\"Sit still and watch him--you can do no more.\"\n\nHe reiterated this injunction many times mentally as he stood\ncontemplating the man who for seven interminable years had ruled,\nrepressed, and worked him as he might have worked a well-constructed,\nmanageable machine; and a sudden rush of joy, of freedom and recompense\nflooded his heart and set his pulses throbbing. He momentarily lost\nsight of the grim shadow hovering over the house. The sense of\nemancipation rose tumultuously, over-ruling even the immense solemnity\nof approaching Death.\n\nJohn Henderson had known little of the easy, pleasant paths of\nlife, carpeted by wealth and sheltered by influence. His most\nchildish and distant recollections carried him back to days of\nanxious poverty. His father, the elder son of a wealthy Scottish\nlandowner, had quarrelled with his father, and at the age of\ntwenty left his home, disinherited in favor of his younger brother.\nPossessed of a peculiar temperament--passionate, headstrong, dogged\nin his resolves, he had shaken the dust of Scotland from his feet;\nsworn never to be beholden to either father or brother for the\nfraction of a penny, and had gone out into the world to seek his\nfortune. But the fortune had been far to seek. For years he had\nfollowed the sea; for years he had toiled on land; but in every\nundertaking failure stalked him. Finally, at the age of fifty, he\ntouched success for the first time. He fell in love and found his\nlove returned. But here again the irony of fate was constant in its\npursuit. The object of his choice was the daughter of an artist, a\nman as needy, as entirely unfortunate as he himself.\n\nBut love at fifty is sometimes as blind as love at twenty-five. With an\nimprovidence that belied his nationality, Alick Henderson married after\na courtship as brief as it was happy. For a year he shared the\nhap-hazard life of his wife and father-in-law; then Nature saw fit to\nalter the small _menage_. The artist died, and almost at the same time\nlittle John was born.\n\nWith the coming of the child, Henderson conceived a new impetus and also\na new sense of bitterness and self-reproach. A homeless failure may\ntramp the face of the earth and feel no shame; but the unsuccessful man\nwho is a husband and a father moves upon a different plane. He has\nties--responsibilities--something for which he must answer to himself.\n\nThere is pathos in the picture of a man setting forth at fifty-one to\nconquer the world anew; and its grim futility is not good to look upon.\nHenderson had failed for himself, and he failed equally for others. The\nyears that followed his marriage were but the unwinding of a pitifully\nold story. Before his boy was ten years old he had run the gamut of\nhumiliation; he had done everything that the pinch of poverty could\ndemand, except apply for aid to his brother Andrew. This even the\nfaithful, patient wife who had stood stanch in all his trials never\ndared to suggest.\n\nIn this atmosphere John learned to look upon life. A naturally\nhigh-spirited and courageous child, he gradually fell under that spell\nof premature understanding that is the portion of a mind forced too soon\nto realize the significance of ways and means. Day by day his serious\neyes grew to comprehend the lines that marked his mother's beloved face;\nto know the cost at which his own education, his own wants, were\nsupplied by the tired, silent father, who, despite his shabby clothes\nand prematurely broken air, seemed perpetually to move in the glamour of\na past romance; and gradually, steadily, passionately, as these things\ncame home to him, there grew up in his youthful mind a desire to\ncompensate by his own future for the struggle he daily witnessed.\n\nMany were the nights when--his lessons for the next day finished, and\nhis father away at one of the many precarious tasks that kept the\nhousehold together--he would draw close to his mother, as she sat\nindustriously sewing, and beg her for the hundredth time to recount the\nstory of the grim Scotch home where his father had lost his birthright;\nof the stern old grandfather who had died inexorably unforgiving; of the\nunknown uncle of whom rumor told many eccentric stories. And, roused by\nthe recital, his boyish face would flush, his boyish mind leap forward\ntowards the future.\n\n\"'Twill all come back, mother!\" he would cry. \"'Twill all come back!\nI'll win it back!\"\n\nAnd, with a sobbing laugh, his mother would drop her sewing and draw him\nto her heart in a sudden yearning of love and pride.\n\nIn such surroundings and in such an atmosphere he passed sixteen years;\nthen the first upheaval of his life took place. His father died.\n\nHis first recollection--when the terrible necessities of the event were\npast, and his own grief and consternation had partially subsided--was\nthe remembrance of his mother calling him to her room; of her kissing\nhim, crying over him and telling him of the resolve she had taken to\nwrite and make known his existence to his uncle in Scotland.\n\nThe confession at first overwhelmed him. His own pride, his sense of\nloyalty to his father's memory prompted him to cry out against the idea\nas against a sacrilege. Then slowly his boyish, immature mind grasped\nsomething of the nobility that prompted the decision--something of the\ninexpressible love that counted sentiment and personal dignity as\nnothing beside his own future; and in a passion of gratitude he flung\nhis arms about his mother, repeating the old childish vows with a new\nand deeper force.\n\nSo the letter to Scotland was despatched; and a time of sharp suspense\nfollowed for mother and son. Then, one never-to-be-forgotten day, the\nanswer arrived.\n\nAndrew Henderson wrote unemotionally. He expressed formal regret for his\nbrother's death, but evinced no interest in his sister-in-law's\nposition. He briefly described himself as living an isolated life in a\nsmall house on the sea-coast, a dozen miles from the family home which\nhad remained untenanted since his father's death. He admitted that with\nadvancing years the duties of life had begun to weigh upon him,\ndiverting his mind and time from the graver pursuits to which his life\nwas devoted; finally he grudgingly suggested that, should his nephew\ncare to undertake the duties of secretary at a salary of sixty pounds a\nyear, he might find a home with him.\n\nThe immediate feeling that followed the reading of the letter was\nfraught with chilling disappointment. On the moment, pride again\nasserted itself, urging a swift refusal of the rich man's proposal; then\nonce more the patience that had kept Mrs. Henderson brave and gentle\nduring seventeen years of wearing poverty made itself felt. All thought\nof personal grievance faded from her mind as she pointed out the urgent\nnecessity of John's being seen and known by this uncle, whose only\nrelation and ostensible heir he was. She talked for long, wisely and\nkindly--as mothers talk out of the unselfish fulness of their\nhearts--and with every word the golden castles of her imagination rose\ntower on tower to form the citadel in which her son was to reign\nsupreme.\n\nSo wisely and so lovingly did she talk that she persuaded not only the\nboy, but herself, into the belief that he had but to reach Scotland to\nmake his inheritance sure; and before the day closed she wrote to Andrew\nHenderson accepting his offer. A week later the whole light of her life\nwent out, as she watched the train steam out of the station, carrying\nJohn northward.\n\nUpon the days that followed his arrival in Scotland there is no need to\ndwell. He came as a stranger, and as a stranger he was introduced by\nhis uncle to the routine of work expected of him. No mention was made of\nhis recent loss, no suggestion was given that his mother should make her\ndouble bereavement easier by visits to her son. Whatever of hope or\nsentiment he had brought with him, he was left to destroy or smother as\nbest he could.\n\nThe first week resolved itself into one round of boyish homesickness and\ndesolation; then gradually, as the marvellous healing properties of\nyouth began to stir, a new feeling awakened in his mind--a sense of\ncuriosity concerning the strange old man whom fate, by a twist of the\nwheel, had made the arbiter of his life. Even to one so young and\ninexperienced, it was impossible to know Andrew Henderson and not to\nfeel that some strange peculiarity set him apart from other men. In his\nascetic face, in his large, light-blue eyes, in his extraordinary air of\nabstraction and aloofness from mundane things, there was something that\nfascinated and repelled; and with a wondering interest the boy studied\nthese things, trying in his unformed way to reconcile them with his\nnarrow experience of human nature.\n\nFor many weeks he sought without success for some key to the attitude of\nthis new-found relative. Then one evening--when solution seemed least\nnear--the key, metaphorically speaking, fell at his feet. Returning home\nfrom a ramble over the headland, his observant eye was caught by the\nsight of a narrow foot-track that, crossing the main pathway of the\ncliff, wound steeply upward and seemingly lost itself in a tangle of\ngorse and bracken. Stirred by a boyish desire for exploration, he\npaused, turned into this obscure track, and incontinently began its\nascent.\n\nFor some hundreds of yards it led upward in a sharp incline; and with\nits added steepness, the ardor of the explorer warmed. With impetuous\nhaste he climbed the last dozen yards; when, as the anticipated summit\nwas reached, he halted in abrupt, dismayed surprise; for with alarming\nsuddenness the land broke off short, disclosing a deep gap or fissure,\ncarpeted with heather and surrounded by natural protecting walls of\nrock, in the centre of which was set a miniature chapel built of dark\nstone.\n\nAt sight of the little edifice, he thrilled with adventurous surprise.\nThere was something mysterious, something almost fine in the sight of\nthe small temple, with the setting sun gleaming on its solid walls, its\nlow, massive door and round window of thick stained glass. He leaned out\nover the shelving rock, staring down upon it with wide, astonished eyes;\nthen the natural instinct of the boy overtopped every other feeling.\nWith a quick-movement of excitement and expectation, he began to descend\ninto the hollow.\n\nBut though he walked round the little building a dozen times, shook the\nheavy door and peered ineffectually into the opaque window, nothing\nrewarded his curiosity, and after half an hour of diligent endeavor he\nwas compelled to return home no wiser than when he had first stood on\nthe summit of the path and looked down into the rocky cleft.\n\nAll that evening, however, the thought of his discovery remained with\nhim. At the eight-o'clock supper of porridge, vegetables, and fruit\nwhich he shared with his uncle, he chafed under the silence of his\ncompanion and at the air of calm indifference that the whitewashed room\nwith its raftered ceiling seemed to wear; and it was with a sigh of\nsatisfaction that he rose from table and bade his uncle a formal\ngood-night.\n\nWith the same suggestion of relief, he watched the old man light his\ncandle and ascend the bare stairs to his own room; then prompted by the\nimpulse he never neglected, he went into the study to write the daily\nletter that made his mother's existence bearable.\n\nHe wrote for nearly an hour, omitting no detail of the evening's\ndiscovery. Then, as he closed and sealed the letter, a clock on the\nmantel-piece struck ten. The sound had an oddly hollow and chilly effect\nin the bare, carpetless room; and unconsciously he raised his head and\nglanced about him. His ideas, still stirred by his adventure, were more\nprone than usual to the suggestion of outward things; and for almost the\nfirst time since his arrival, he felt drawn to study his intimate\nsurroundings. With a new curiosity he let his eyes wander from the\nsevere book-shelves to the ugly iron safe that stood in the most\nprominent position in the room; and from the safe his glance turned to\nthe revolving bookcase by his uncle's favorite chair, in which lay the\nvolumes that were in daily use. Following an impulse he had never\npreviously been conscious of, he crossed the room, and drawing three\nbooks, at hap-hazard from the case, studied their titles.\n\n_The Indissoluble Essence_, he read; _The Soul in Relation to the Human\nMind_; _The Mystic Influence_.\n\nHe stood for a space gazing at the sombre covers, but making no attempt\nto dip into their pages; then a sudden look of comprehension sprang into\nhis eyes. The oddly built stone chapel took on a new and more personal\nmeaning. With a quick gesture he thrust the books back into their place,\nextinguished the lamp, and softly left the room. Gaining the hall, he\ndid not turn towards the stairs; but tiptoeing to the table, picked up\nhis cap, crossed the hall noiselessly and opened the outer door.\n\nThe warmth of the August day was still heavy on the air as he stepped\ninto the open; a great copper-colored moon hung low over the sea, and a\nsoft, filmy haze lay over both land and water. Without hesitation he\nturned into the cliff path, and followed it until his quick eyes caught\nthe indistinct foot-track that he had discovered earlier in the evening.\nWith the same decision, the same suggestion of anticipation, he stepped\nrapidly forward and once more began the sharp ascent.\n\nThe impetus of his curiosity carried him forward; he mounted the path in\nhot haste; then, as he gained the summit, he halted again, but in new\nsurprise. In the hazy, mellow moonlight, the small building stood out\nsharp and dark as on his previous visit, but from the round,\nstained-glass window a flood of light--crimson, rose-color, and\ngold--poured out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nIn the first moment of astonishment, John stood motionless, his gaze\nriveted on the glow of color that poured through the window upon the\nrocks and heather of the cleft. Then, as he continued to stand with\nwidely opened eyes, another surprise was sprung upon him. The door of\nthe chapel opened and the figure of his uncle--long since supposed to be\nsleeping tranquilly in his own room--showed tall and angular in the\naperture.\n\n[Illustration: \"THE FIGURE OF HIS UNCLE ... SHOWED TALL AND ANGULAR IN\nTHE APERTURE\"]\n\nFrom John's position, the open door and the lighted interior of the\nlittle edifice were distinctly visible; and in one glance he saw his\nuncle's silhouetted figure and behind it a bare space some dozen feet\nsquare, lined on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately\nblack and white. From the ceiling of this chamber depended an\noctagonal symbol in polished metal, and close by the door eight wax\ncandles flickered slightly in the faint stir of air. But his astonished\nand inquisitive eyes had barely become aware of these details when\nAndrew Henderson turned towards the circular sconce in which the candles\nwere set and began to extinguish them one by one. As the light died, he\nstepped forward and John drew back sharply; but at his movement a stone,\nloosened by his heel, went rolling down into the hollow. And a moment\nlater his uncle, glancing up, saw his figure outlined against the\nluminous sky.\n\nWhat the outcome of the incident would have been on any other occasion,\nit is difficult to say. As it was, the moment was propitious. Old\nHenderson, surprised in an instant of exaltation, was pleased to put his\nown narrow, superstitious construction on the boy's appearance. Laboring\nunder an abnormal excitement, he showed no resentment at the fact of\nbeing spied upon; but calling John to him, ordered him to walk home\nbeside him across the cliff.\n\nNever was walk so strange--never were companions so ill-matched as the\ntwo who threaded their way back over the headland. Andrew Henderson\nwalked first, talking all the time in a jargon addressed partly to the\nboy, partly to himself, in which mysticism was oddly tangled with a\nconfusion of crazy theories and beliefs; behind came John, half\nfascinated and wholly bewildered by the medley of words that poured out\nupon the night.\n\nOn reaching the house, the old man became suddenly silent again, falling\nback as if by habit into the morose absorption that marked his daily\nlife; but as he turned to mount the stairs to his own room, he paused\nand his curious light-blue eyes travelled over his nephew's face.\n\n\"Good-night!\" he said. \"You make a good listener.\"\n\nAnd John--still confused and silent--retired to bed, to lie awake for\nmany hours, partly thrilled and partly elated by the awesome thought\nthat there was a madman in the house.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut all that had happened seven years ago, and now Andrew Henderson lay\nwaiting for his end. In those seven years John had passed through the\nmill of deadly monotony that saps even youth, and lulls every instinct\nsave hope. The first enthusiasm of romance that had wrapped the\ndiscovery of his uncle's secret had faded out with time. By slow degrees\nhe had learned--partly from his own observation, partly from the old\nman's occasional fanatic outbursts--that the strange chapel with its\nmetal symbol and marble floor was not the outcome of a private whim, but\nthe manifestation of a creed that boasted a small but ardent band of\nfollowers. He had learned that--to themselves, if not to the\nworld--these devotees were known as the Mystics; that their articles of\nfaith were preserved in a secret book designated the Scitsym, which\npassed in rotation each year from one to another of the six\nArch-Mystics, remaining in the care of each for two months out of the\ntwelve. He had discovered that London was the Centre of this sect; and\nthat its fundamental belief was the anticipation of a mysterious\nprophet--human, and yet divinely inspired--by whose coming the light was\nto extend from the small and previously unknown band across the whole\nbenighted world.\n\nHe had learned all these things. He had been stirred to a passing awe by\nthe discovery that his uncle was, in his own person, actually one of the\nprofound Six who formed the Council of the sect and to whom alone the\nsecrets of its creed were known; and for three successive years his\ninterest and curiosity had been kindled when Andrew Henderson travelled\nto England and returned with the Arch-Councillor--an old blind man of\nseventy--who invariably spent one day and night mysteriously closeted\nwith his host and then left, having deposited the sacred Scitsym with\nhis own hands in the tall iron safe that stood in Henderson's study. But\nthat annual excitement had lessened with time. Even a madman may become\nmonotonous when we live with him, day in, day out, for seven long years;\nand gradually the attitude of John's mind had changed with the passage\nof time. The sense of adventure and triumphant enterprise had steadily\nreceded; the knowledge that he was working out a slow, distasteful\nprobation had advanced. Reluctantly and yet definitely he had realized\nthat his position was not to come and conquer, but to watch and wait;\nand this consciousness of a tacitly expected end had grown with the\nyears--with the growth of his mind and body. It was not that he was\nhard-natured. The regularity with which he despatched his yearly money\nto his mother--reserving the merest fraction for himself--precluded that\nidea. But he was young and human, and he was youthfully and humanly\ngreedy to possess the good things of life for himself and for the one\nbeing he passionately loved. It would, indeed, have been an enthusiast\nin virtue who could have blamed him for counting upon dead men's shoes.\n\nAnd now the shoes were all but empty! He stood watching his uncle die!\n\nHaving stayed almost motionless for several minutes, he glanced at the\nclock; then moved to the bed, taking a bottle and a medicine spoon from\nthe dressing-table as he passed.\n\n\"Time for your medicine, uncle!\" he said, in his quiet, level voice.\n\nBut the sick man did not seem to hear.\n\nIn a slightly louder tone John repeated his remark. This time the vacant\nexpression faded slowly from the large, pale eyes, and Andrew Henderson\nmoved his head weakly.\n\nSeeing the indication of consciousness, John carefully measured out a\ndose of medicine, and, stooping over the pillows, passed one arm under\nhis uncle's neck.\n\nAndrew Henderson submitted without objection, but as his head was raised\nand the medicine held to his lips, he seemed suddenly to realize the\nposition, to comprehend that it was his nephew who leaned over him. With\na spasmodic movement he turned towards John, his lips twitching with\nsome inward and newly aroused excitement.\n\n\"The Book, John!\" he said, sharply--\"the Book!\"\n\nJohn remained quite composed. With a steady hand he balanced the spoon\nof medicine that he still held.\n\n\"Your medicine first, uncle,\" he said, quietly. \"We'll talk about the\nBook after.\"\n\nBut the old man's calm had been disturbed. With unexpected strength he\nraised one thin hand and pushed the spoon aside, spilling the contents\non the bed.\n\n\"How can I leave it?\" he exclaimed. \"How can I go and leave the Book\nunguarded?\" Again his lips twitched and a feverish brightness flickered\nin his eyes as they searched his nephew's face.\n\n\"When I go, John,\" he added, excitedly, \"the Book may be in your keeping\nfor hours--perhaps for a whole night. I know the Arch-Councillor will\nanswer my summons immediately; but it is possible he may be delayed. It\nmay be the ordination of the Unknown that I should Pass before he\narrives. If this is so, I want you to guard the Book--but also I want\nyou to guard my dead body. Let no one touch it until he comes. The key\nof the safe is here--\" He fumbled weakly for the thin chain that hung\nabout his neck. \"No one must remove it--no one must touch it until he\ncomes--\" His voice faltered.\n\nWith a calm gesture John forced him back upon the pillows, and quietly\nwiped up the medicine.\n\nBut with a fresh effort the old man lifted himself again.\n\n\"John,\" he cried, suddenly, \"do you understand what I am saying? Do you\nunderstand that for a whole night you may be alone with the inviolable\nScitsym? 'The Hope of the Universe, by whose Light alone the One and\nOnly Prophet shall be made known unto the Watchers!'\" He murmured the\nquotation in a low, rapt voice.\n\nAgain the younger man attempted to soothe him.\n\n\"Don't distress yourself!\" he said, gravely. \"I am here. You can trust\nme. Lie back and rest.\"\n\nBut his uncle's face was still excitedly perturbed; his pale eyes still\npossessed an unnatural brightness.\n\n\"Oh yes!\" he said, sharply, \"I trust you! I have trusted you. I have\nleft a letter by which you will see that I have trusted you--and that\nyour fidelity has been rewarded. But this is another matter. Can I trust\nyou in this? Can I trust you as myself?\" As he put the question a sweat\nof weakness and excitement broke out over his forehead.\n\nBut it was neither his wild appearance nor his question that suddenly\nsent the blood into John's face and suddenly set his heart bounding. It\nwas the abrupt and unlooked-for justification of his own secret,\ntreasured hope; the tacit acknowledgment of kinship and obligation made\nnow by Andrew Henderson after seven unfruitful years. A mist rose before\nhis sight and his mind swam. What was the mad creed of a dying man--of a\ndozen dying men--when the reward of his own long probation awaited him?\n\nBut the old man was set to his purpose. With shaking fingers he fumbled\nwith two small objects that depended from the chain about his neck. And\nas he held them up, John saw by the glow of the lamp that one was a copy\nin miniature of the metal symbol that decorated the little chapel, the\nother a long, thin key.\n\nAs Henderson disentangled and raised these objects to the light, his\neyes turned again upon his nephew.\n\n\"John,\" he said, tremulously, \"I want you to swear to me by the Sign\nthat you will not touch my body--nor anything on my body--till the\nArch-Councillor comes! Swear, as you hope for your own happiness!\" A\nwild illumination spread over his face; the unpleasant fanatical light\nshowed again in his eyes.\n\nFor a moment John looked at him; then stirred by his own emotions, by\nthe new pang of self-reproach and gratitude towards this half-crazy man\nso near his end, he went forward and touched the small octagonal symbol\nthat gleamed in the light.\n\n\"I swear--by the Sign!\" he said, in a low, level voice. And almost as\nthe words escaped him, the chain slipped from old Henderson's fingers,\nhis jaw dropped, and his head fell forward on his chest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe moments that follow an important event are seldom of a nature to be\naccurately analyzed. For a long while John remained motionless and\nspeechless, unable to realize that the huddled figure still warm in his\narms was in reality the vessel of clay from which a spirit had escaped.\nThen suddenly the realization of the position came to him; with a sharp\nmovement he stood upright, and seizing the bell-rope, pulled it\nvigorously.\n\nWhen the old woman who attended to the household appeared, he pointed to\nher master's body and explained in a few words how the end had come; and\nhow in a last urgent command Henderson had forbidden his body to be\ntouched until the arrival of a member of his religious sect. The old\nwoman accepted the explanation with the apathy common to those who have\noutlived emotion; and with a series of nods and unintelligible\nmutterings methodically proceeded to straighten the already neatly\narranged furniture of the room, in the instinctive belief that order is\nthe first tribute to be paid to Death.\n\nWith something of the same feeling John drew the coverlet over the dead\nbody, then turned to watch the old woman at her work. But as he looked\nat her a desire to be alone again swept over him, and with the desire a\ncorresponding impatience of her slow and measured movements. Chide\nhimself as he might for his impatience, curb his natural instinct as he\nmight, it was humanly impossible that his strong and eager spirit could\ngive thought to Death--while Life was claiming him with out-stretched\nhands.\n\nHe held himself rigidly in check until the last chair had been arranged\nand the last cinder swept from the hearth; then as the old woman slowly\ncrossed the room and stepped out into the corridor, he sprang with\nirrepressible impetuosity and shut and locked the door.\n\nHe had no superstitious consciousness of the dead body so close at\nhand. The dead body--and with it the dead years and the long\nprobation--belonged to the past; he with his youth, his strength,\nhis hope, was bound for the limitless future.\n\nWithout a moment's hesitation he crossed to his uncle's bureau, which\nstood as he had left it three days before when his last illness had\nseized upon him. The papers were all in order; the ink was as yet\nscarcely rusted on the pens; the key protruded from the lock of the\nprivate drawer. With a tremor of excitement John extended his hand,\nturned it and opened the drawer; then he caught his breath. There lay a\nsquare white envelope addressed to himself in his uncle's fantastic,\ncrooked handwriting.\n\nAs he drew it out and held it for a moment in his hand, his thoughts\ncentred unerringly round one object. In a moment, the seven years of\nwaiting--the strange death scene just enacted--even Andrew Henderson and\nhis mystical creed--were blotted from his mind by a wonderful\nrose-colored mist of hope, from which one face looked out--the patient,\ntender, pathetic face of the mother he adored. The emotions, so long\nsuppressed, welled up as they had been wont to do years ago in the\nsordid London home.\n\nWith a throb of confidence and anticipation he inserted his finger under\nthe flap of the envelope and tore it open. With lightning speed his eyes\nskimmed the oddly written lines. Then a short, inarticulate sound\nescaped him, and the blood suddenly receded from his face.\n\n     \"MY DEAR NEPHEW,\" he read.--\"In acknowledgment of your services\n     during the past seven years--and also because I have no wish to\n     pass into the Unseen with the stain of vindictiveness on my\n     Soul--I have obliterated from my mind the remembrance of my\n     brother's ingratitude to our father, and have placed the sum of\n     L500 to your credit in the Cleef branch of the Consolidated Bank. I\n     trust it may assist you to commence an industrious career. For the\n     rest, it may interest you to know that my capital, which I realized\n     upon your grandfather's death, is already placed in the treasury of\n     the sect to which I belong--where it will remain until claimed by\n     the One in whose ultimate advent I most solemnly believe.\n\n     \"I make you cognizant of these facts that all disputes and\n     unnecessary differences may be avoided after my death. The papers\n     by which my property was made over to the Mystics some five years\n     ago--together with a doctor's certificate as to my mental soundness\n     at the time--is in the hands of the Council. Any attempt to unmake\n     this disposition of my fortune would be fraught with failure.\n\n     \"With sincere hopes for your future welfare,\n\n                     \"Your uncle,\n\n                       \"ANDREW HENDERSON.\"\n\nFor a space John stood pale and rigid, making no attempt to reread the\nletter; then all at once one of those rare and curious upheavals of\nfeeling that shake men to their souls seized upon him. The blood rushed\nback into his face in a dark wave; the rose-colored mist that had\nfloated before his vision flamed suddenly to red; the same implacable\nrage that, years ago, had impelled his grandfather to disinherit his\nfavorite son swelled in his heart. All ideas, all considerations, save\none, became blurred and indistinct; but this one idea rode him, spurred\nhim to a frenzy of desire. It was the blind, instinctive, human wish to\nwreak his loss and disappointment upon some tangible, visible object.\n\nWith a dazed movement he turned to the bed; but only the huddled,\nimpassive figure beneath the coverlet met his gaze. For more than a\nminute he stared at it helplessly; then a new thought shot across his\nmind and his lips drew together in a thin, hard line. The road to\nrevenge lay open before him! With an abrupt gesture he stepped forward\nand pulled back the counterpane.\n\nIn the yellow lamp-light the thin face of the dead man had an ashen hue;\nthe half-opened eyes and the prominent teeth, from which the lips had\npartly receded, confronted him grewsomely. But the force of his\ndisappointment and rage was something before which mere human horror was\nswept aside. With another rapid movement, he stooped over the bed and\nunclasped the thin gold chain that hung round the dead man's neck,\nletting the metal symbol and the long, thin key slip from it into his\nhand. Turning to the dressing-table, he caught up a lamp; hurried from\nthe room; and, descending the stairs, passed into the study.\n\nTo his excited glance the place looked strangely undisturbed. Though the\nframes of the windows rattled in the gale, the interior arrangements\nwere as precise and bare as usual; the fireless grate stared at him\ncoldly, and against the whitewashed wall the heavy iron safe stood out\nlike an accentuated blot of shadow. Impelled by his one dominating idea,\nhe crossed without an instant's hesitation to the door of this hitherto\ninviolable repository of his uncle's secrets, and, inserting the key he\ncarried, threw back the massive door.\n\nOne glance showed him the thing he sought. Lying in solitary state upon\nthe highest shelf was a heavy book bound in white leather. The edges of\nthe cover were worn yellow with time and use, and from the centre of the\nbinding gleamed the familiar octagonal symbol exquisitely wrought in\ngold and jewels. With hands that trembled slightly he lifted the book\nfrom its place, closed and locked the door of the safe, and,\nextinguishing the lamp, left the room.\n\nIn the flood of unreasoning rage and thwarted hope that surged about\nhim, he had no definite plan regarding the object in his hand. He only\nknew, by the medium of instinct, that through it he could strike a blow\nat the uncle who had excluded him from his just inheritance--at the\ncrazy scheme by which he had been defrauded of his due.\n\nWith hasty steps he mounted the stairs and re-entered the bedroom. To\nhis agitated mind it seemed but just that, whatever his vengeance, it\nshould be accomplished in the grim, unconscious presence of the dead\nman.\n\nStepping into the room, he paused and looked about him, seeking some\nsuggestion. As he stood there, his eyes, by a natural process of\ninspiration, fell upon the fire that glowed and crackled in the grate;\nand with a sharp, inarticulate sound of satisfaction he strode forward\nto the hearth, knelt down, and prepared for his work of destruction.\n\n[Illustration: \"HE ... GATHERED THE FIRST SHEAF OF LEAVES INTO HIS\nFINGERS\"]\n\nAs he crouched over the flames a fresh gale swept inland from the sea,\nseizing the house in its fierce embrace; and the red tongues of fire\nleaped up the chimney in the instant answer of element to element.\n\nInstinctively he bent forward, opened the book and gathered the first\nsheaf of leaves into his fingers. Then, involuntarily, he paused, as the\nbold characters of the printed words shot up black and clear in the\nfierce glow.\n\nAlmost without volition he read the opening lines:\n\n     \"Out of obscurity will He come. And--having proved Himself--no man\n     will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the\n     Scitsym--from which none but the Chosen may read--will ye know Him;\n     and, knowing Him, ye will bow down--Mystics, Arch-Mystics, and\n     Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be\n     Power made absolute!\"\n\n\"For he will be Power made absolute!\" Something in the six simple words\narrested Henderson, suspended his thoughts and checked his hand. By an\nodd psychological process his rage became chilled, his mind veered from\nits point of view. With a curious stiffness of motion he drew away from\nthe fire--the book held uninjured in his hand.\n\n\"He will be Power made absolute!\" he repeated, mechanically, as he rose\nslowly to his feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nOn a certain night in mid-January, exactly ten years after Andrew\nHenderson's death, any one of the multitudinous inhabitants of London\nwhom business or pleasure carried to that division of Brompton known as\nHellier Crescent, would undoubtedly have been attracted to the house\ndistinguished from its fellows as No. 8.\n\nOutwardly, this house was not remarkable. It possessed the massive\nportico and the imposing frontage that lend to Hellier Crescent its air\nof dignified repose; but there its similarity to the surrounding\ndwellings ended. The basement sent forth no glow of warmth and comfort,\nas did the neighboring basements; the ground-floor windows permitted no\nray of mellow light to slip through the chinks of shutter or curtain.\nFrom attic to cellar, the house seemed in darkness, the only suggestion\nof occupation coming from the occasional drawing back and forth of a\nsmall slide that guarded a monastic-looking grating set in the hall\ndoor.\n\nAnd yet towards this unlighted and unfriendly dwelling a thin stream of\npeople--all on foot and all evidently agitated--made their way\ncontinuously on that January night between the hours of ten and eleven.\nThe behavior of these people, who differed widely in outward\ncharacteristics, was marked by a peculiar fundamental similarity. They\nall entered the quiet precincts of the Crescent with the same air of\nsubdued excitement; each moved softly and silently towards the darkened\nhouse, and, mounting the steps, knocked once upon the heavy door. And\neach in turn stood patient, while the slide was drawn back, and a voice\nfrom within demanded the signal that granted admittance.\n\nThis mysterious gathering of forces had continued for nearly an hour\nwhen a cab drew up sharply at the corner where Hellier Crescent abuts\nupon St. George's Terrace, and a lady descended from it. As she handed\nhis fare to the cabman, her face and figure were plainly visible in the\nlight of the street-lamps. The former was pale in coloring, delicately\noval in shape, and illumined by a pair of large and unusually brilliant\neyes; the latter was tall, graceful, and clad in black.\n\nHaving dismissed her cab, the new-comer crossed St. George's Terrace\nwith an appearance of haste, and entering Hellier Crescent, immediately\nmounted the steps of No. 8.\n\nThe last member of this strange procession had disappeared into the\nhouse as she reached the door; but, acting with apparent familiarity,\nshe lifted the knocker and let it fall once.\n\nFor a moment there was no response; then, as in the case of the former\nvisitors, the slide was drawn back and a beam of light came through the\ngrating, to be immediately obscured by the shadowy suggestion of a face\nwith two inquiring eyes.\n\n\"The Word?\" demanded a solemn voice.\n\nThe new-comer lifted her head.\n\n\"He shall be Power made absolute!\" she responded in a low and slightly\ntremulous voice; and a moment later the door opened, and she stepped\ninto the hall.\n\nThe scene inside the house was curious in the extreme. If there were\nquiet and darkness outside, a brilliant light and a tense, contagious\nexcitement reigned within. The large hall, lighted by tall lamps, was\ncovered with a thick black carpet into which the feet sank noiselessly,\nand the walls and ceiling were draped in the same sombre tint; but at\nintervals of a few feet, columns of white marble, chiselled into curious\nshapes, gleamed upon the observer from shadowy niches.\n\nOn ordinary occasions, there was a solemnity, a coldness, in this sombre\nvestibule; but to-night a strange electric activity seemed to have been\nbreathed upon the atmosphere. Women with flushed faces and men with\nfeverishly bright eyes hurried to and fro in an irrepressible, aimless\nagitation. A blending of dread and hysterical anticipation was stamped\nupon every face. People stopped one another with nervous, unstrung\ngesture and odd, disjointed sentences.\n\nAs the last comer entered, she paused for a moment, uncertain and\nhesitating; but almost as she did so, a remarkable-looking and massively\nbuilt man who was standing in the hall, disengaged himself from a group\nof people, and, coming directly towards her, took her hand.\n\n\"Mrs. Witcherley! At last!\" he exclaimed, in a full, emotional voice. \"I\nlooked for you among the gathering and for a moment I almost feared--\"\n\n\"That I would fail?\" Her voice was still tinged with agitation; the\npupils of her large eyes were distended.\n\n\"No, I did not mean that. But at such a moment we burn lest even one of\nthe Elect be missing.\" He continued to hold her hand, looking into her\nface with his prominent dark eyes, from which flashed and glowed an\nexcitement that spread over his whole heavy face.\n\n\"The night of nights!\" he exclaimed. \"To have lived to witness it!\" His\nface glowed with a sudden enthusiasm; and freeing her fingers, he lifted\nup his right hand. \"'He shall walk into your midst--and sit above you as\na King!'\" he quoted, in a loud voice. Then remembering his companion, he\nlowered his tone.\n\n\"Everything is in readiness,\" he added, more soberly. \"The Precursor\nstill unceasingly prophesies the Advent. Come with me into the Place.\nThe Gathering is all but assembled.\" Laying his large hand upon her arm,\nhe led her forward unresistingly through the groups of men and women,\nand onward down a long corridor to where a curtain hid an arched\ndoorway.\n\nFor a moment they paused outside this door, and the man--still laboring\nunder some strange excitement--again raised his hand:\n\n\"Come!\" he cried. \"And before we leave the Place, may the Hope of the\nUniverse be fulfilled!\" Lifting the curtain, he ushered her through the\ndoor.\n\nThe room--or chapel--into which they stepped was large and lofty,\ncovered on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately black and\nwhite; overhead swung a huge octagonal symbol in jewelled and polished\nmetal; and at the end farthest from the door a haze of incense clouded\nwhat appeared to be an altar.\n\nA concourse of people filled every corner of this vast room; and from\nthe crouched or upright figures rose a continuous, inaudible murmuring.\n\nStill guiding his companion, the massively built man forced a way\nbetween the closely packed figures. But, half-way up the room, the woman\npaused and glanced at him.\n\n\"This will do,\" she whispered. \"Not any nearer, please. Not any nearer.\"\n\nHis only answer was to lay his hand upon her arm, and by a persistent\npressure to draw her onward up the narrow aisle. Reaching the railed-in\nspace about which the incense hung, he paused in his own turn and\nmotioned her towards the foremost row of seats, from which the majority\nof the gathering seemed to hold aloof.\n\nWith a quick, nervous gesture she deprecated the suggestion. \"No! No!\"\nshe murmured. \"Let me sit behind. Please let me sit behind.\"\n\nBut his fingers tightened impressively upon her arm. \"No,\" he whispered,\nclose to her ear. \"No, I want you to be here. When the time arrives, I\nwant the full light to shine upon you.\"\n\nAfter this she demurred no more, but moved obediently into the appointed\nseat, her companion placing himself beside her.\n\nIn the first moments of agitation and nervousness, she had scarcely\nobserved her surroundings; but now, as her perturbation partially\nsubsided, she looked back at the rows of bowed or erect figures, and\nforward at the space about which the incense clung like a filmy veil. At\na first glance this veil seemed almost too dense to penetrate; but as\nher sight grew accustomed to its drifting whiteness, she was able to\ndiscern the objects that lay behind.\n\nIn place of the altar, usually prominent in every religious building,\nthere was a wide semicircular space, within which stood a gold chair\nraised upon a dais and a heavy lectern of symbolic design on which\nrested a white leather book, worn yellow at the edges. Over this book a\nman was poring, apparently unconscious of the active interest he evoked.\nHe was short and thick-set, with a square jaw, a long upper lip, and\nkeen eyes. Over a head of vividly red hair, he wore a round black silk\ncap, and his figure was enveloped in a flowing black gown.\n\nFrom time to time, as he read, he lifted one hand in rapt excitement,\nwhile his lips moved unceasingly in rapid, inaudible speech. At last,\nwith a sudden dramatic gesture, he turned from the lectern and threw out\nboth arms towards the high gold chair.\n\n\"Oh, empty throne! Empty world!\" he cried. \"Be filled!\"\n\nThere was something intense, something electric in the words. A startled\ncry broke from the people, already wrought to nervous tension. Some\namong them rose to their feet; some glanced fearfully behind them;\nothers cowered upon the ground.\n\nAnd then--in what precise manner no one present ever remembered--the\ncurtain at the doorway of the chapel was swung sharply back; and the\ntall, straight figure of a man clad all in white moved slowly up the\naisle.\n\nHe moved forward calmly and deliberately, his gaze fixed, his senses\napparently unconscious of the many eyes and tongues from which\nfrightened glances and frightened, awe-struck words escaped as he made\nhis solitary, impressive progress.\n\nReaching the railing, he paused and lifted one hand as if in benediction\ntowards the red-haired man who still remained in solitary occupation of\nthe Sanctuary.\n\nAt the action, a gasp went up from the crowded chapel, and even those\nwho still crouched upon the floor ventured to raise their heads and\nglance at the spot where the tall figure in the white serge robe stood\nmotionless and impressive. Then the whole concourse of devotees stirred\nin involuntary excitement as the red-haired man, with a cry of rapture,\nrushed forward and prostrated himself at the feet of the stranger.\n\nFor a space, that to the watchers seemed interminable, the two central\nfigures remained rigid; then at last the tall man stooped, and with\ngreat dignity raised the other.\n\nAs he gained his feet, it was obvious that the smaller man was deeply\nagitated. His lips were trembling with some strange emotion, and it\nseemed that he could scarcely command his gestures. After a protracted\nmoment of struggle, however, he appeared to regain his self-control; for\nwith a slightly tremulous movement he stepped forward, laid his hands on\nthe low railing and glanced at the assembled people.\n\n\"Mystics!\" he began. \"Chosen Ones! Out of the Unseen I have come to\nprophesy to you--I, an obscure servant and follower of the Mighty. For\nfifteen days have I spoken--telling you that which was at hand. And now,\nbehold I am justified!\" He paused and indicated the tall white figure\nstill standing motionless, with face averted from the congregation.\n\n\"What have I told you!\" he continued, his voice rising. \"Have I not\nquoted from the sacred Scitsym--which until this hour I have never been\npermitted to look upon? Have I not foretold the coming of this man--the\ngarments he would wear--the Sign upon his person? And have I not done\nthese things by a power outside myself?\" Again his voice rose; and the\ncongregation thrilled in response.\n\n\"You have listened to me--you have marvelled--but in your Souls doubt\nhas held sway. Now is the moment of justification! It is not meet that\nthe Great One should plead for recognition; it is for you--the\nWatchers--to see and claim him. Master!\" he cried, suddenly. \"Master,\nshow them the Sign!\"\n\nA hush like the hush of night fell upon the people; and in this curious\nand impressive lull the white-robed man turned slowly round facing the\ncongregation.\n\nHis appearance was arresting and remarkable, though it possessed nothing\nof beauty. He had a tall and powerful figure, a strong and determined\nface; his bare head was covered with close-cut black hair; his hard,\nfirm lips were clean-shaven, and his gray eyes looked across the chapel\nwith a peculiar sombre fire.\n\nHe stood silent for a moment, surveying the faces clustered before him;\nthen he raised his left hand.\n\n[Illustration: \"ACROSS THE PROPHET'S BREAST, IN MARKS OF A CRUEL\nLACERATION, RAN THE SYMBOLIC OCTAGONAL FIGURE OF THE MYSTIC SECT\"]\n\n\"My People!\" he began, in a deep, slow voice. \"We live in an age when\ndoubt roams through the world like a beast of prey. I ask not for the\nfaith that accepts blindly; but in this most sacred Scitsym--\" he\npointed to the white book upon the lectern--\"it is written that, by a\ncertain secret Sign, the Arch-Mystics will recognize Him for whom they\nhave waited. I call upon the Arch-Mystics to declare whether or no I\nbear upon my person that secret Sign!\" He paused for a moment; then with\na grave, calm gesture he unfastened his robe where it crossed his breast\nand threw it open.\n\nThere was a rustle of intense curiosity, as all involuntarily leaned\nforward; an audible gasp of awe and shrinking, as all instinctively drew\nback before the sight that confronted them. Across the Prophet's breast,\nin marks of a cruel laceration, ran the symbolic octagonal figure of the\nMystic sect.\n\nHe stood dignified and unmoved until the tremor of emotion had subsided.\nThen his glance travelled over the foremost row of seats.\n\n\"Come forth!\" he commanded, authoritatively. \"Come forth and acknowledge\nme!\" His eyes moved slowly from seat to seat--pausing momentarily on\nthe pale, absorbed face of the woman in black. But scarcely had his\nglance rested upon her than the heavily built man who sat beside her,\nrose agitatedly and stepped forward to the sanctuary. For a space he\nstood staring at the scarred skin from which the symbol of his creed\nstood forth as if miraculously branded; then he turned to the\ncongregation, his prominent eyes burning, his heavy face working with\nemotion.\n\n\"Brethren,\" he said, inarticulately. \"Brethren, it is indeed the Sign!\"\n\nBut the Prophet remained motionless.\n\n\"Where are the other five?\" he asked, in a level voice.\n\nAlmost simultaneously four men rose from the congregation and came\nforward. One was tall and gaunt, with a Slavonic type of face, wild\neyes, and a long, fair beard; another was young--scarcely more than\nseven and twenty--with the free carriage, fiery glance, and swarthy\ncomplexion of the nomadic races of southeastern Europe; the third was a\nsmall, frail man of fifty, with a nervous system painfully in advance of\nhis physical strength; while the fourth was a true mystic--impassioned,\nenthusiastic, detached. One by one these men advanced, examined the\nscars, and turning to the people, confirmed the words of their fellow.\nThen, amid a tremulous hush, the last of the six--the Arch-Councillor\nhimself--was led up the aisle.\n\nFor an instant the glimmering of some new feeling crossed the Prophet's\nface, as his glance rested on the old man who slowly approached with\nfeeble steps, bent back, and anxious, sightless eyes. But, as quickly as\nit had come, the expression passed, and he stepped forward for the old\nman's touch.\n\nWith a quivering gesture the Arch-Councillor lifted his hand and\nnervously passed his fingers over the scars; then, drawing the Prophet\ndown, he touched his face. For a long moment of suspense his fingers\nlingered over the features; then they fell again upon the scars. And an\ninstant later he sank upon his knees.\n\n\"It is indeed made manifest!\" he cried, in a loud, unsteady voice. \"He\nshall sit above you as upon a Throne!\"\n\nThe words were magical. The whole concourse of people swayed forward\nhysterically. Men pressed upward towards the railing; women wept.\n\nAnd through it all the Prophet stood unmoved. He stood like a rock\nagainst which the clamorous human sea beat wildly. With a quiet movement\nhe drew his robe across his breast, hiding the unsightly scars, but\notherwise he made no motion. At last the red-haired man who had first\nclaimed him, stepped forward to his side.\n\n\"Speak to them, Master!\" he said.\n\nThe words roused the Prophet. With a calm gesture he raised his head,\nhis eyes confronting the mass of strained, excited faces lifted to his.\n\n\"My People,\" he said again, in his deep voice. \"What will you do with\nme?\"\n\nThe response was instant.\n\n\"The Throne! The Throne!\" The crowd surged forward in a wave, then\nreceded as the tide recedes; and the old Arch-Councillor stepped feebly\ninto the Sanctuary and extended his hands to the Prophet.\n\nIt was a moment of breathless awe. The tall woman, who until that moment\nhad remained seated, involuntarily rose to her feet.\n\nShe saw the figure of the Prophet move grandly across the Sanctuary in\nthe wake of the old blind man; she saw him halt for an infinitesimal\nspace at the foot of the throne; she saw him calmly and decisively mount\nthe steps of the dais and seat himself in the golden chair. Then,\nprompted by an overwhelming impulse, she yielded to the spirit of the\nmoment and dropped to her knees.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThree hours later, when the curious rite of acknowledgment had been\ncompleted and the concourse of zealots had departed from Hellier\nCrescent, the first night in his new kingdom opened for the Prophet. As\nthe clocks of Brompton were striking two, the six Arch-Mystics--each of\nwhom possessed rooms in a remote portion of the house--lingeringly and\nfearfully bade him good-night, and left him alone with the Precursor in\nthe apartments that for nearly fifty years had been kept swept and\ngarnished in expectation of his advent.\n\nApart from their suggestion of the mystical and fantastic, these rooms\npossessed an intrinsic interest of their own. And some consciousness of\nthis interest appeared to be at work within the Prophet's mind; for\nscarcely had he and his companion been assured of privacy, than he rose\nfrom the massive ivory chair which had been apportioned to him and from\nwhich he had made his second and private justification of his claims;\nand very slowly and deliberately began a circuit of the chamber.\n\nWith engrossed attention he passed from one to another of the rare and\ncostly objects that formed the furniture of the place; while, from the\nebony table in the centre of the room, his red-haired companion watched\nhim with vigilant eyes.\n\nStill moving with unruffled deliberation, he completed his tour of the\napartment; then a remarkable--a startling thing took place. He wheeled\nround, laid his hands heavily on the Precursor's shoulders, and looking\nclosely into his face, broke into speech.\n\n\"Well?\" he demanded, intensely. \"Well? Well? What have you to say?\"\n\nAt first the red-haired man sat watching him, mute and motionless; then\nwith a suddenness equal to his own, he released himself, leaned forward\nin his chair, and silently uncorked a gold flask that stood upon the\ntable before him. Lifting it high, he poured some wine into two glass\ngoblets, and without a word handed one to the white-robed Prophet, and\nhimself picked up the other.\n\n\"John,\" he said, deliberately, \"you were magnificent! Let me give you a\ntoast? Power! Power made Absolute!\"\n\nWith a grave gesture the Prophet extended his hand, and their glasses\nclinked.\n\n\"Power made Absolute!\" he responded, in a low, deep voice.\n\nIn silence they drank the toast; but, as he replaced his glass upon the\ntable, the Prophet shook off his gravity, and turned again to his\ncompanion.\n\n\"Now!\" he exclaimed. \"Now! Out with it all! How much of this has been\nnative adroitness, and how much unbelievable good-fortune? Out with it!\nI'm hungry and thirsty for the truth.\"\n\nFor answer the Precursor slowly lifted the gold flask and replenished\nhis own glass. \"Truth in a golden flask! But, to throw a sop to your\ncuriosity, it was a matter of native genius engineered by Providence. I\ndon't mind admitting that when I stood on the doorstep of this house\nfifteen nights ago and knocked the mystic knock, I felt like a man\nembarking on a coffin-ship.\" He stopped to drain his glass.\n\nThe Prophet took a step forward.\n\n\"And then?\" he said, eagerly. \"Then?\"\n\nThe other waved his empty glass.\n\n\"Oh, there entered the native genius of Terence Dominick Devereaux!\nUnder that tremendous escort I stormed the citadel--\"\n\nThe Prophet smiled. \"And the Mystic ears, I have no doubt.\"\n\nFor a third time the Precursor filled his glass.\n\n\"The tongue is mightier--and a good deal more portable--than either the\npen or the sword, John,\" he said, sagely. \"Paving your way with words\nhas been an unrecognized work of art. But how about yourself? I have my\nown curiosity.\" He wheeled round in his seat and looked into his\ncompanion's face.\n\nThe Prophet looked away.\n\n\"Oh, I had my qualms, too!\" he said, slowly. \"Just for a moment the\nworld seemed to tremble, when the old Arch-Councillor groped forward and\nput his hands over my face. It swept me off my feet--swept me back ten\nyears. It was like a vision in a crystal--if such a thing could exist. I\nsaw the whole past scene. The bare room--the old dead man--myself; the\noverwhelming wish to avenge my wrongs, and the sudden suggestion that\nturned the wish cold. I saw the long, bleak night in which I completed\nthe colossal task of copying the Scitsym line for line; I saw the gray\nmorning steal in across the room as I closed the book, returned it to\nits safe and replaced the key on my uncle's neck in preparation for the\narrival of the Arch-Councillor. It all passed before my mind, and then\nin a flash was gone. I ceased to be John Henderson.\"\n\nThe Precursor glanced quickly towards the door.\n\n\"Avoid that name. Habits grow--and so do suspicions. Your probation has\nbeen too long and too hard to permit us to run risks. Now that you've\nstepped into your kingdom--\" He made an expressive gesture.\n\nThe Prophet laughed shortly, then suddenly turned grave again.\n\n\"You are right!\" he said. \"Only a man with a light conscience can skate\non thin ice. To return to our original subject, what about the inner\nworkings of this odd game? It is so curious to have lived for years on\ntheory, and suddenly to come face to face with practice. I tell you I'm\nstarving for facts.\" He stepped forward quickly and dropped into a chair\nthat faced his companion's.\n\n\"Out with it all! To begin, who is the master-spirit? You know what I\nmean. The master-spirit in the true sense. Poor old blind Arian doesn't\nstand for much.\"\n\nThe Precursor looked meditatively at his empty glass.\n\n\"No,\" he said, thoughtfully. \"You touch truth there! Michael Arian is\nthe cipher; Bale-Corphew's the meaning. Bale-Corphew is an interesting\nman, John--I had almost said a dangerous man--\"\n\nThe Prophet's lip curled slightly.\n\n\"Dangerous!\"\n\n\"Yes; dangerous in a sense. In the sense that a personality always is\ndangerous. Among the six Arch-Mystics there is, to my thinking, only one\n_man_, and he interests me. He interests me, does Horatio\nBale-Corphew!\"\n\nThe Prophet leaned forward in his chair.\n\n\"I think I catch your meaning,\" he said. \"Something of the same idea\noccurred to me when he rose from his seat to-night. While we spied upon\nthem in the last six months, he always struck me as curiously\nun-English, with that sleek exterior and those flashing eyes of his. But\nin the chapel to-night he was almost aggressively alien. When he touched\nmy arm I could literally feel him bristle.\"\n\nThe other nodded.\n\n\"You've said it!\" he cried. \"Horatio bristles! His whole queer soul is\nin this business--every fibre of it. He attempts no division of\nallegiance--except, perhaps, in the matter of the heart--\"\n\nThe Prophet glanced up and smiled.\n\n\"The heart? Do my faithful Watchers permit themselves hearts? The\nScitsym makes no provision for such frail organs.\"\n\nThe Precursor laughed again.\n\n\"Oh, we Elect are by no means free from little saving weaknesses! That's\nwhere we become dramatic. You can't have effect without contrast.\nHoratio, for instance, is instinctively dramatic.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"Yes. Oh yes! I know what I'm saying. I've studied them all. More than\nonce, when my Soul has been communing with your August Spirit, I have\nwatched Horatio's dramatic contrast from the corner of my eyes.\"\n\nAgain the Prophet smiled.\n\n\"The contrast frequents the chapel then?\"\n\n\"Frequents? Undoubtedly. Horatio has literally swept her into the fold.\nShe was here to-night to bend the knee to you.\"\n\nA look of recollection crossed the Prophet's eyes.\n\n\"To-night?\" he said. \"Not the woman who sat beside him? The woman with\nthe big eyes? She and Bale-Corphew! The idea is absurd!\"\n\n\"Undeniable, nevertheless. I have deduced the story. The lady is\na widow--no relations--too much freedom--vague aspirations after\nthe ideal. She has sounded society and found it too shallow;\nsounded philosophy and found it too deep; and upon her horizon\nof desires and disappointments has loomed the colossal presence of\nBale-Corphew--enthusiast, mystic, leader of a fascinatingly unorthodox\nsect. What is the result? The lady--too feminine to be truly modern, too\nmodern to be wholly womanly--is viewing life through new glasses, and by\ntheir medium seeing Horatio invested with a halo otherwise invisible.\"\n\nThe Prophet remained quiet and silent; then he rose slowly from his seat\nand walked round the table. \"Devereaux,\" he said, laconically, \"only the\nProphet is going to wear a halo here.\"\n\nThe Precursor's sharply marked, expressive eyebrows went up in quick\ncomment.\n\n\"Can even a latter-day Prophet afford autocracy?\"\n\nFor a space the Prophet made no response; then he took a step forward\nand laid his hand impressively on his friend's shoulder.\n\n\"Devereaux,\" he said, in a new voice--a voice that unconsciously held\nsomething of the command that had marked it in the chapel--\"the Prophet\nof the Mystics has come to rule. He has not come to follow the laws that\nothers--that men like Bale-Corphew--have seen fit to make. He has come\nto be a law unto himself!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIt is astonishing in how short a space of time a man of vigorous\ncharacter can make his personality felt. On the night of his mysterious\nadvent, the Prophet had found his people in a condition of mental\nchaos--as liable to repudiate as to accept the seeker for their\nconfidence; but before one month had passed he had, by domination of\nwill, so moulded this neurotic mass of humanity that his own position\nhad gradually and insensibly merged from suppliant into that of\nautocrat. Without a murmur of doubt or dissension the Mystics had\nproclaimed him their king.\n\nOn the last day of the thirty he sat alone in his room--the room in\nwhich he and the red-haired Precursor had held their private council on\nthe night of his coming. The heavy purple curtains that shielded the\nwindows were partly drawn, throwing a subdued, almost a devotional,\nlight over the wide, imposing apartment and across the ebony table, on\nwhich rested the sacred Scitsym, surrounded by an array of smaller and\nmore ancient books, several rolls of parchment, a number of quill pens,\nand a dish of ink. It was at this table that the Prophet sat; he wore\nthe monastic white robe that he always affected in presence of his\npeople, his arms were folded, and his face looked calm and grave, as\nthough he appreciated the moment's solitude.\n\nThe solitude, however, was not destined to endure. The soft booming of a\ngong presently roused him to attention, and a moment later the door of\nthe apartment opened and an ascetic-looking man, whose duty and\nprivilege it was to wait upon him, entered deferentially.\n\nHe stood for a moment in an attitude of profound abasement; then he\nstepped forward and stood beside the table.\n\n\"Master,\" he said, in a low voice. \"The newest among us would speak with\nyou!\"\n\nThe Prophet raised his head and a gleam of interest crossed his eyes;\nbut almost immediately he subdued the look.\n\n\"I am willing,\" he replied, unemotionally, in the usual formula. Then he\nglanced at his attendant. \"After this, the audiences for the day are\nover,\" he added.\n\nThe man bowed, and with awe-struck deference moved silently from the\nroom, almost immediately reappearing, to usher in the devotee, and with\nthe same conscious air of mystery, to retire, closing the heavy door.\n\nFor a moment the new-comer stood just inside the threshold. As on the\nnight of the Prophet's coming, she wore a long, black dress that\naccentuated her height and grace, and brought into prominence the clear\npallor of her skin and the remarkable luminous brilliance of her eyes. A\nstruggle between superstitious dread and human curiosity was distinctly\nvisible in her expression as she stood uncertain of her position,\ndoubtful as to her first move.\n\nThe Prophet glanced at her, and the shadow of a smile touched his lips.\n\n\"Have no fear,\" he said. \"Come forward!\"\n\nThe strong, steady voice gave her courage, and with slightly agitated\nhaste she stepped towards the table.\n\nThe Prophet gravely motioned her to a seat and assumed an attitude of\nattention. Upon each of the thirty mornings he had sat in this same\nposition in his ivory chair, while, one after another, the members of\nthe sect had claimed audience with him. Morning after morning he had\nexhibited the same grave, aloof interest--his hands clasped, his eyes\nupon the Scitsym--while the fearful, the fanatical, the hysterical had\npoured forth their tales of struggle or aspiration. But now, on this\nlast morning, he was conscious of a new suggestion, a new impression in\nwhat had grown to be routine. This last aspirant for spiritual light was\nneither fanatical nor hysterical, was scarcely even imbued with fear.\nSomething within his brain responded to the idea, to the reassuring\nhuman curiosity that gleamed in her eyes. He found himself waiting for\nher first words with an impatience that no other member of the\ncongregation had aroused.\n\nBut the wait was long--disconcertingly long. The aspirant glanced\nuncertainly about the room, as if unwilling or unable to break into\nspeech; then at last she raised her head, and, with an effort, met the\nProphet's eyes.\n\n\"I'm terribly nervous!\" she said, in an irresistibly feminine voice.\n\nThe effect upon her hearer was instantaneous. The distant and spiritual\naloofness, so easy to assume in the presence of the credulous, became\nsuddenly a matter of impossibility. With a quiet dignity that had more\nof masculine protectiveness than of mystical inspiration he turned to\nher afresh.\n\n\"Have no fear!\" he answered, gently. \"My only desire is to help you.\nTell me everything that is in your mind.\"\n\nShe leaned forward quickly. \"You--you are most kind--\" she began. Then\nagain she halted.\n\nBut he took no notice of her embarrassment.\n\n\"Why have you never come before?\" he asked. \"Had you no doubts to be set\nat rest?\" He spoke so quietly that her nervousness forsook her, and with\na swift impulse she glanced up at him.\n\n\"I--I think I was afraid,\" she said, candidly. \"You see, I am not\nexactly one of the others--\"\n\n\"You did not quite believe that the One you had waited for had really\ncome?\" His voice was low and tinged with some inscrutable meaning.\n\n\"Oh no! No; it was not that. Before you came, I confess I was sceptical;\nI confess I did not believe that any one would come, that there was any\ntruth--any real meaning--in the sect. But then--when you did come--\"\n\nThe Prophet lifted his head.\n\n\"When I did come?\" he asked, sharply.\n\n\"The whole thing was different--\"\n\n\"The whole thing was different?\" he repeated, slowly and meditatively.\nBy a curious process of suggestion and recollection, something of his\nown experiences in the realm of mental upheaval rose with her words. He\nstudied the pale face and brilliant eyes with a fresh and more intimate\ninterest.\n\n\"The whole thing was different?\" he said once more, in his slow, deep\nvoice.\n\nThe warm color flooded her face. \"Yes,\" she admitted. \"Yes. You seemed\nthe one real person--the one sane thing in the whole ceremony. I felt--I\nknew that you were--strong.\" She paused, alarmed at her own timidity;\nand again their eyes met.\n\n\"And why have you never come to me before?\" He had no particular meaning\nin the question; he was only conscious of an inexplicable wish to\nprolong the interview.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know--I scarcely know.\" Again she spoke quickly and\nnervously. \"I have come every night to hear you speak--I have loved to\nhear you speak. But--but to be alone with you--\" She paused,\nexpressively. \"It is all so strange--so extraordinary. It doesn't seem\nto belong to the present day--\" She looked up at him in appealing\nperplexity.\n\n\"And why did you come now?\"\n\n\"Why? Oh, because--because I could not stay away.\"\n\nFor the first time the Prophet was conscious of a tremor of\ndiscomfiture; for the first time the spectacle of his fraud, as seen\nfrom a point of view other than his own, touched him unpleasantly. He\nmoved slightly in his massive chair.\n\n\"In this life,\" he said, with a sudden, almost incontinent assumption of\nhis Prophetic manner, \"we must be ever careful to distinguish the Wine\nfrom the Vessel that contains it. I endeavor, with all the Power I am\npossessed of, to impress upon my People that I have come, not to _be_\nthe Way, but to _show_ the Way! To teach you all that what you seek in\nme, is in each one of you. Every man is his own Prophet, if he but knew\nit!\" As he spoke he turned his eyes upon the Scitsym, and the hard,\ninscrutable look that so dominated his followers descended upon his\nface. As he reached the last words, he glanced again at his companion,\nbut as his eyes rested on her face he paused disconcerted. She was\ngazing at him with a candid, spontaneous admiration infinitely more\nhuman and infinitely more irresistible than the neurotic adoration that\nwas daily lavished on him. With an odd, inexplicable sense of guilt, he\nrose quickly from his seat.\n\n\"Do not forget--do not allow yourself to forget that this is my\nteaching,\" he said. \"That you have each within yourselves the thing you\ndemand in me. Look for it within yourselves! Rely upon yourselves!\"\n\nAs he ceased, she also rose. She was pale, and trembled slightly.\n\n\"But if one cannot follow that teaching?\" she asked. \"If one longs to\nrely upon some one else? If one cannot rely upon one's self?\"\n\nThe Prophet made no answer. He stood with one hand resting on the table,\nhis gaze fixed upon the book.\n\nEmboldened by his silence, she approached him by a step.\n\n\"I think I could believe--\" she murmured. \"I think I could\nbelieve--anything, if I might learn it from you.\" She paused\npleadingly; then, as he still stood unresponsive, the color rushed again\ninto her face.\n\n\"I--I have been presumptuous,\" she said. \"I have offended you.\"\n\nSomething in her tone, in her charming unaffected humility stung him.\nFor the first time in his career as Prophet, the blood surged hotly and\npainfully into his face.\n\n\"Do not say that!\" he began, impulsively; then he checked himself. \"I am\nhere to teach my People,\" he added. \"All my People--without exception.\"\n\nFor one moment she studied his face half doubtfully; then at last her\nown emotions conquered her doubt.\n\n\"Then I may come again?\"\n\nHe did not reply at once; and when at last his words did come, his voice\nwas unusually irresolute and low.\n\n\"You may come--at any time,\" he said, without meeting her eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nSo it came about that the serpent of misgiving entered into the\nProphet's paradise. With Enid Witcherley's words, the realization of his\ntrue position had been unpleasantly suggested to him, and the grain of\ndoubt had been scattered over the banquet he had set himself to enjoy.\nIt was one thing to fool men who yearned to be fooled--even to fool\nwomen whose peculiarities set them apart from their sex; but it was\nindisputably another matter to dupe a young and confiding girl, who came\nwith all the fascination of modern doubt, counterbalanced by the charm\nof feminine credulity.\n\nLong after she left him, he had paced up and down the room in perplexity\nof spirit, until at last, with a sudden contempt for his own weakness,\nhe had turned to where the white binding of the Scitsym caught the\nsubdued light. The sight of the book had nerved him, as it never failed\nto do; but for all his regained firmness, the sense of uneasy shame had\nremained with him during the day; and that night, when he addressed his\npeople, he had instinctively guarded his glance from resting on the\nseats that fronted the Sanctuary.\n\nBut now that first interview was past by three weeks, and Enid's daily\nvisits to the great room where he gave audience to the congregation had\nbecome one of the recognized events of the twenty-four hours. The sense\nof shame returned periodically; but on each renewal of the feeling he\nsalved his conscience more and more successfully with the assurance that\nto her, as to himself, the Mystics were in reality nothing but the\nproducts of a neurotic age--mere hysterical dabblers in the truths of\nthe universe. She was too delicately feminine, he told himself with\ngrowing conviction, too intelligent and self-controlled, to be more than\ntemporarily attracted to any such exotic creed. She might toy with it\nfor a while, but the day must inevitably dawn when common-sense and the\nneed of surer things would send her back into the broad channel of\nsimple, satisfying Christianity. For a space this unnatural state of\nthings would last; for a space their curious companionship would\ncontinue--their long, intimate talks would make life something new and\nwonderful; then--But there, for some unexplained reason, speculation\ninvariably stopped.\n\nSo things stood on the fiftieth morning after her first coming. The\nstream of suppliants for his favor was all but exhausted, and he awaited\nto give the last audience of the day.\n\nAfter the moment of quiet and solitude that always separated the\ninterviews, the sonorous gong announced the last visitor; the silent,\nascetic attendant threw open the door and Enid entered.\n\nThis time she displayed none of the hesitancy that had marked her early\nmanner. She came towards the table with quick, assured steps, her face\nbright with anticipation.\n\nAs she approached, the Prophet rose. It was remarkable that he no longer\nretained his sitting position when she entered the room, as was his\ncustom with the other members of the sect. Involuntarily and almost\nunconsciously he extended to her the ordinary courtesies that man\ninstinctively offers to woman.\n\nAs she reached the table, she glanced up at him, and something of the\npleasure died out of her face.\n\n\"You look tired,\" she said, softly.\n\nHe smiled.\n\n\"Does that disappoint you?\"\n\nHis tone confused her.\n\n\"Oh no! No!\" Then she colored slightly and glanced at him again. \"Why do\nyou ask?\"\n\n\"Because it is the way of humanity to refuse any common weakness to its\nleaders--spiritual or temporal.\"\n\nAgain a wave of color crossed her skin. \"But surely--\"\n\n\"Surely what?\"\n\nShe glanced away; then, seeming to gather up her courage, she looked\nback at him.\n\n\"I mean,\" she said, slowly, \"that some people are so strong that they\nmay be allowed to have anything--\"\n\n\"Even weaknesses--\" Once more he smiled. It was significant how,\ngradually and indisputably, the tone of teacher had dropped out of his\nconversation. Neither could have told the date on which the change had\noccurred--perhaps neither was conscious that it had even taken place.\nBut the fact remained that, with her, he no longer felt compelled to\nhold aloof; that, with her, he had discarded the allegorical manner of\nspeech, and had begun to show himself as he naturally was.\n\n\"Even weaknesses?\" he said again, as she made no attempt to answer.\n\nAt the words her eyes once more met his.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, with new resolution--\"yes, even weaknesses. I often\nthink that it is because you are so--so human that you hold us as you\ndo. It seems right that a Prophet should belong to the people he has\ncome to teach. All the prophets of the world have essentially belonged\nto their own times. If you had sat upon the Throne all day and communed\nwith your Soul, I should have been very much afraid of you; but I should\nnever have believed in you as I do now, when you talk to me and advise\nme and help me like--like a friend.\" Her voice trembled slightly.\n\nA peculiar expression crossed the Prophet's face.\n\n\"So I seem a--friend?\"\n\n\"More than a friend. I can never tell you what you have been to me--what\nyou have done for me. I have never been so happy--so satisfied in my\nlife, as in these last three weeks. Every disappointment and\ndissatisfaction seems to have slipped away; I seem to have been living\nin some calm, beautiful, restful atmosphere--\" She paused, her face as\nwell as her voice tinged with a subtle excitement.\n\n\"It may be very selfish, but I wish that these days could go on forever.\nI know that, for you, they are only a probation; that you must crave for\nthe moment when, having taught us everything, you will go out into the\nworld and teach the Unbelievers. I know all that, and I know it is only\nright, but--but I hate to think of it!\" A sudden break came in her\nvoice.\n\n\"You hate to think that all this must end?\"\n\nAgain their eyes met; but, as though the contact of glances embarrassed\nher, Enid looked away.\n\n\"Yes, I do hate it. Do you despise me for being so selfish--so jealous\nof those other people who will take our place?\"\n\nFor a moment the Prophet made no reply. In the dim light of the room,\nthe muscles of his hard face looked set; his strong hands were clasped.\n\n\"Do you despise me?\" she asked again.\n\n\"It is not for me to judge any one--you least of all,\" he answered,\nwithout looking at her.\n\nAt the subdued tone, the unexpected words, she turned to him\napprehensively.\n\n\"You are angry with me?\"\n\n\"Indeed, no.\"\n\n\"Then what is it? What have I done--or said?\"\n\nHe remained silent.\n\nIn her sudden distress she leaned forward in her chair, looking into\nhis face with new solicitude.\n\n\"I know--I feel that I have displeased you. Won't you tell me what I\nhave done?\"\n\nAs she put the question, she laid one gloved hand upon the table; and\nthough the Prophet's eyes were fixed upon the Scitsym, he was conscious\nin every fibre of the appeal the unstudied gesture made--as he was\npoignantly conscious of the clear eyes, the soft dark hair, the\nquestioning upturned face.\n\nFor an interminable time the silence remained unbroken; at last, with a\nlittle sound of fresh distress, Enid bent still nearer.\n\n\"Oh, I understand!\" she exclaimed. \"I understand! You think I have taken\nadvantage of your goodness. You think I have imagined that, because you\nare kind and patient and tolerant, I might look upon you as--as a man.\"\nAs she said the word she paused, frightened by her own timidity.\n\nBut as suddenly the Prophet wheeled round and laid his fingers over\nhers. The pressure of his hand was like steel, the expression of his\nface was altered and disturbed.\n\n\"If you only knew--\" he said, sharply--\"if you only knew how I have\nlonged to hear you say just that one word _man_!\" He paused almost\ntriumphantly, his eyes searching her frightened face, his fingers\ngripping hers.\n\nFor an instant she sat petrified and fascinated; then a faint sound of\nalarm escaped her, and she turned towards the door.\n\nWithout the formality of the announcing gong, two men had entered the\nroom, and stood silent spectators of the tableau. One was Devereaux, the\nPrecursor; the other was Horatio Bale-Corphew.\n\nFor one embarrassed moment all four looked at each other; then the\nPrecursor hastened to save the situation. He made a long, profound\nobeisance, and stepped deferentially to the table.\n\n\"Your pardon, Master!\" he murmured. \"We knew not that the immutable\nSoul was speaking from within you, calling one among us towards the\nLight!\" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where the massive form\nand agitated face of Bale-Corphew was framed in the doorway.\n\nAt his peremptory look the Arch-Mystic seemed to gather himself\ntogether. Stepping forward, he made a slightly tardy reverence.\n\n\"Master,\" he said, huskily, \"what the Precursor tells you is the truth.\nSeeing the threshold unguarded, we concluded that the audiences for the\nday were over.\" His prominent brown eyes were filled with conflicting\nexpressions as he turned them on the Prophet.\n\nBut the Prophet remained unmoved. The hard look had returned to his\nface, the stern rigidity to his figure. Very slowly he released the hand\nthat still trembled under his own.\n\n\"The time of the Prophet belongs to his People,\" he said, with dignity.\n\"He holds audience whenever, wherever, and _however_ it is expedient.\nSpeak, my son! In what can I serve you?\"\n\nBale-Corphew looked at him in silence. Whatever he had come to say\nappeared to have escaped his mind. For a while inaction reigned in the\nroom; then, with a pale face and nervous manner, Enid rose, bowed to the\nProphet, and moved noiselessly to the door.\n\nAll three watched her until she had disappeared; then Bale-Corphew found\nvoice again.\n\n\"Master,\" he murmured, hurriedly, \"with your permission, I also would\nleave the Presence;\" and with a perturbed gesture, he too bowed and\npassed out of the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nOn a crisp, cold afternoon, one week after her interview with the\nProphet, Enid Witcherley sat in the drawing-room of her London flat. The\nearly portion of the day had been pleasantly warmed and brightened by\nthe pale March sunshine; but at three o'clock a searching wind had begun\nto blow across the city from the east; and now, as the small gold clock\non her bureau chimed the hour of five, she rose from the couch where she\nhad been sitting, and, crossing the room with a little shiver, drew a\nchair to the fire and pressed the electric bell.\n\nAs the maid appeared, in answer to her summons, she gave her order\nwithout looking round.\n\n\"Tea, Norris!\" she said, in an unusually curt and laconic voice.\n\nFor a considerable time after the maid's departure she sat motionless,\nher hands stretched out towards the blazing logs, her large eyes\nabsently watching the firelight on her many and beautiful rings. When\nthe woman reappeared, and, noiselessly arranging the tea-table, moved it\nto her side, she scarcely glanced up; and to the most superficial\nobserver it would have been patent that her own thoughts and\nspeculations fully absorbed her mind.\n\nShe retained her contemplative attitude after the servant had withdrawn\nfor the second time, and it is doubtful how long she would have remained\nsunk in apparent lethargy had not the unexpected sound of the hall-door\nbell caused her to start into an upright position with a little\nexclamation of surprise and impatience.\n\nAs she sat listening with nervous intentness, the door opened, and once\nmore Norris appeared. After a second's hesitation she crossed to her\nmistress.\n\n\"There's a gentleman at the door, ma'am,\" she said, deprecatingly.\n\nEnid looked up, a frown still darkening her forehead.\n\n\"I told you I was not at home.\"\n\n\"I know, ma'am, but--\" Norris hesitated.\n\n\"But what? I told you I was not to be disturbed. I _won't_ be\ndisturbed.\" With a gesture plainly indicative of high-strung nerves, she\nturned to the table and poured herself out a cup of tea.\n\nThe maid glanced behind her towards the door. \"But the gentleman won't\ngo, ma'am--\"\n\n\"Won't go!\" In her surprise Enid laid down the cup she had been about to\nraise to her lips. \"Who is he?\" she demanded.\n\nNorris looked down. \"I don't know, ma'am. I told him you were not at\nhome, but he won't go. He's the sort of gentleman who won't take no for\nan answer.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you. Who is he? What is he like?\" Unconsciously and\ninvoluntarily Enid's tone quickened. Something in the woman's\nwords--something undefined and yet suggestive--stirred and agitated her.\n\nNorris seemed to choose her words. \"Well, ma'am,\" she answered, slowly,\n\"he's very tall--and not like any other gentleman that comes here. I\ncan't rightly explain it, miss, he seems used to having his own way--\"\n\nAs she halted, uncertain how to choose her words, Enid rose nervously.\nShe could not have defined her emotions, but some feeling at once vague\nand portentous was working in her mind.\n\n\"Did he give no name?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. I was to say that he was some one that must be seen. He'd\ngive no name.\"\n\nFor a further instant Enid was silent, conscious of nothing but her own\nunsteady pulses; then suddenly she turned almost angrily upon the\nservant.\n\n\"Show him in!\" she cried. \"Show him in at once! Don't keep him standing\nat the door.\"\n\nIn some confusion Norris turned and walked across the room. At the\ndoorway she paused and looked back.\n\n\"Will you have the lights on, ma'am?\"\n\n\"No. No; the fire makes light enough. I like twilight and a fire. Don't\nstand waiting!\"\n\nThe woman departed; and for a space that seemed to her interminable,\nEnid stood beside the fireplace, motionless with hope, dread, and an\nalmost uncontrollable nervousness. At last, as in a dream, she saw the\ndoor open and the tall, characteristic figure of the Prophet move into\nthe room.\n\nShe was vaguely aware that he halted for a moment, as if undecided as\nto his action, while Norris retired, softly closing the door. Then, with\na sudden leap of the heart, she was conscious that he was coming towards\nher across the shadowed room.\n\nHe moved straight forward until he was close beside her; and, with one\nof his decisive, imperious gestures, he put out both hands and caught\nhers.\n\n\"It was a case of Mohammed and the mountain!\" he said, in his grave\nvoice. \"You wouldn't come to me; I _had_ to come to you.\"\n\nNo sound escaped her. She stood before him mutely, her face paling and\nflushing, her hands fluttering in his.\n\nThere was a slight pause; and again he bent towards her.\n\n\"Why have you stayed away?\"\n\nShe hesitated for a moment, spellbound by her emotion; then, making a\nsudden effort, she looked up. \"I--I was afraid.\" Her voice was so low\nand shaken that the words were a mere whisper.\n\n\"Afraid? Afraid of what?\"\n\nShe made no answer.\n\n\"Of what? Of Bale-Corphew?\" He gave a slight, sarcastic laugh.\n\n\"No!\" She looked up sharply. \"Oh no!\"\n\n\"Then of what? Of me?\" His voice suddenly sank, and the pressure of his\nfingers tightened.\n\n\"No! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!\" With a tremulous gesture she tried\nto withdraw her hands.\n\nAt the movement, he suddenly drew her towards him. \"Tell me!\" he said.\n\"I want to know. I must know!\"\n\nFor the first time since he had entered the room, her glance rested\nfully on his face. The light was uncertain, but as her gaze concentrated\nitself, a new look--a look of wonder and alarm--sprang across her eyes.\nIn the seven days since they had spoken together, a change had fallen\non him. Some alteration she could not define had grown into his\nexpression; the cold mastery of himself and others was still visible;\nbut a new emotion had insensibly been created--something powerful and\neven dominant--for which she could find no name. With a sharp,\ninstinctive alarm, her lips parted.\n\n\"What is it?\" she said, apprehensively. \"Why are you here? The time has\nnot come for you to go out into the world?\"\n\nA faintly ironic smile flitted across his lips.\n\n\"Surely, if one is a Prophet, one can alter even prophecies.\"\n\nHe said the words deliberately, looking down into her face.\n\nThe tone, the intentional flippancy of the words, came to her with a\nshock. It was as if, by considered action, he had set about jeopardizing\nhis own dignity. A chill of undefined apprehension blew across her mind\nlike a cold wind.\n\n\"I--I don't understand,\" she stammered. \"How did you get here? How did\nyou get away?\"\n\nAgain his keen eyes searched hers.\n\n\"As for getting away,\" he said, slowly, \"when a Prophet has a Precursor,\nhe should be able to arrange these things. Five o'clock is a dull hour\nat Hellier Crescent. The Arch-Mystics are perusing the Scitsym; the\nPrecursor is guarding the sacred threshold of the Prophet; the Prophet\nis--presumably--communing with his Soul. The routine of this evening\ndiffers in no way from the routine of any other evening--except that the\nPrecursor is rather more than usually vigilant in his watch.\" Again the\nforced flippancy was apparent; and to Enid, staring at him with wide,\nperplexed eyes, there was something inexplicable and alarming in this\nnew and unfamiliar attitude. With a tremor of foreboding, her glance\ntravelled over his face.\n\n\"Has anything happened?\" she asked. \"Have the People done wrong? Have\nyou--have you been called elsewhere?\" At the last dread possibility her\nvoice faltered.\n\nBut the Prophet stood cold and almost rigid. At last, by an immense\neffort, he seemed to gather himself together for some tremendous end.\n\n\"Enid,\" he said, gravely, \"I don't know how much you know of life, but I\npresume you know very little. I presume that--and shall act on the\npresumption. I shall not expect--even ask--any leniency of you.\n\n\"I came here this evening to tell you something that will alter your\nopinion of me so effectually that nothing hereafter can reinstate me in\nyour mind.\" He spoke slowly and deliberately, without tremor or falter.\nWhatever of struggle lay behind his words, it lay with the past. It was\nevident as he stood there in the pretty, luxurious room, that he\npossessed a purpose, and that he held to it without thought of a\nretrograde step.\n\n\"I have come to make a confession,\" he said, quietly. \"Not because I\nbelieve in the habit of unburdening one's conscience, but because there\nis something you have a right to know--\"\n\n\"I--? A right to know?\" Her lips paled.\n\n\"Yes. A right to know.\" With a sudden access of feeling he dropped her\nhands and turned towards the window, where the last glimmer of the\nwintry twilight showed through the soft silk curtains.\n\n\"I am putting myself in your hands,\" he said, steadily. \"I am\njeopardizing myself utterly by what I am going to say; but it seems to\nme the only way by which I can make--well, can patch up some poor\namends--\n\n\"I may be presumptuous, but I believe--I think--that I have stood for\nsomething in your eyes.\" He turned and looked at her. But in the mingled\ndusk and firelight only the pale outline of her face was visible.\n\n\"Enid!\" he cried, with sudden resolution, \"it must be faced. It must be\nsaid. I'm not what you think me. I'm a fraud--a lie--an impostor. No\nmore a Prophet--no more inspired than you--or Bale-Corphew!\" He stopped\nabruptly and drew a slow, deep breath.\n\nThe pause that followed was long and strained. In the grip of strong\nemotions, each stood rigid, striving vainly to read the other's face. At\nlast, goaded by the silence, he spoke again.\n\n\"You have done this!\" he cried. \"You have compelled me to tell you! I\ncame to these people; I duped them--and gloried in duping them. I\ndespised them, understood them, traded on them without a scruple. Then\nyou came. You came--and the scheme was shattered. The whole thing, that\nhad bubbled and sparkled, became suddenly like flat champagne. That is a\ncommon simile, but it is descriptive. The acting of an actor depends\nupon his audience. While my audience was composed of fools, I fooled\nthem; but when you came--you with your scepticism, your curiosity, your\nfeminine dependency--I lost my cue. I became conscious of the footlights\nand the make-up.\" Again he paused; and again he endeavored to read her\nface. His manner was still restrained, but below his calm were the\nstirrings of a deep agitation. There was tense anxiety in the set of his\nlips, an inordinate anticipation in the keenness of his eyes. For a\nspace he stood waiting; then, as she made no effort towards response, he\nstepped to her side.\n\n\"Say something!\" he exclaimed. \"Speak to me! I am waiting for you to\nspeak.\"\n\nWith a low, frightened murmur she drew back, extending her hands, as if\nto ward him off.\n\nThe sound and the movement stung him to action. With a speed that might\nhave been construed into fear, he came still nearer.\n\n\"Enid!\" he said. \"Enid!\"\n\nBut again she retreated involuntarily.\n\n\"Oh, why did you do it?\" she exclaimed, suddenly, in a faint, shaken\nvoice. \"Oh, why did you do it? Why did you do it?\"\n\nFor an instant her tone and her manner daunted him; then he straightened\nhis body and raised his head.\n\n\"I did it for what is reckoned the most sordid motive in the world,\" he\nsaid, in a level voice. \"I did it for money!\"\n\n\"For money?\" With a scared movement she turned upon him, and for the\nfirst time since he had made his revelation, he saw her pale, alarmed,\nincredulous face in the full light of the fire.\n\n\"I was wronged!\" he said, sharply. \"These people had defrauded me. I\nwanted what was justly mine.\"\n\n\"Wanted?\" The word formed itself almost inarticulately.\n\n\"Yes; wanted. Wanted with all my might. I have worked, schemed, suffered\nfor this in ways you could never imagine. I thought myself invincible.\nI believed that if the devil himself stood in my way it would not deter\nme. And now you--a frail girl--have wrecked the scheme!\" He paused\nagain, leaning towards her in sudden unconscious appeal for\ncomprehension.\n\n\"I won't say it hasn't been a struggle to come to you like this--to make\nmy confession. It has. My conscience and I have been struggling night\nand day. I have held out to the last. It was only to-day--this very\nday--when I woke to face the crisis of my plans, that I knew I was\nbeaten--knew the fight was over.\n\n\"And do you understand why this has happened? Do you know why I am going\naway as empty-handed as I came? It is because I have seen you--because I\nlove you--\"\n\nHe put out his hands. But as his fingers touched her, she thrust him\naway, freeing herself with fierce resentment.\n\n\"Don't! don't! don't!\" she cried. \"You call yourself an impostor--You\nare worse than that. Much worse. You are a thief!\"\n\nHe stepped back as though she had struck him, and his hands dropped to\nhis sides.\n\n\"Yes, you are a thief!\" she said again, hysterically; \"a thief!\"\n\nThe repetition of the word goaded him.\n\n\"Wait! Let me defend myself!\"\n\nBut with a broken sound of protest she flung her hands over her ears.\n\n\"No! no! no!\" she cried, vehemently. \"There is no defence to make. There\nis no defence. You may leave the money of the sect, but you have stolen\nthings that can never be replaced. Faith--hopes--ideals--\" Her voice\nfailed her.\n\n\"Mistaken faith--mistaken ideals--\" He caught her wrists, drawing her\nhands downward.\n\nBut again she freed herself and confronted him with blazing eyes and a\nface marred by tears and emotion.\n\n\"Nothing is mistaken that lifts one up--that helps one to live. Oh, you\ndon't knew what you have done! You don't know! I thought you so\nnoble--so great--and now--\"\n\n\"Now I am condemned unheard.\"\n\n\"Unheard? Do you think words could change anything? There is only one\nthing I wish for now--never, never to see you again as long as either of\nus live!\" With each word her voice rose, and on the last it broke with\nan excited sob.\n\nWhile she had been speaking the Prophet's face had become very pale. He\nturned to her now with a manner that was preternaturally quiet.\n\n\"Very well!\" he said. \"I understand! But there is no need for you to\ntrouble. All our arrangements are made--have been made for months. We\nattend the Gathering to-night; and afterwards, when Hellier Crescent is\nquiet, we go--as unobtrusively as we came. You see I give you the key to\nour plans; you are free to frustrate them, if you think fit. I don't\nbelieve I had any real hope of merciful judgment when I came here--women\nare not merciful when they are robbed of their illusions. But I confess\nI hoped for justice. I thought that you might hate me--\"\n\n\"Hate you?\" she cried. \"Hate you? We only hate what we respect. I don't\nhate you. I only despise you with all my heart. I want you to go before\nI despise myself as well!\" Her own cruel disillusioning--her own\nunbearable sense of loss--swept over her afresh; her voice rose again,\nand again broke hysterically. With an uncontrolled movement of grief and\nmortification she turned away from him and threw herself upon a couch,\nburying her face in the pillows.\n\nFor several minutes she cried tempestuously; then through the storm of\nher angry tears she caught the sound of a closing door. With a start\nshe sat up and looked about her.\n\nThe faint relic of daylight still showed through the curtains of the\nwindow; the firelight still played pleasantly on the untouched tea-table\nand the fragile furniture; but the room was empty. The Prophet was\ngone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nWhen she realized this fact, Enid rose from her seat with a murmur of\ndismay. In her sharply feminine sense of loss, she took one involuntary\nstep towards the door; but almost as the step was taken, her anger, her\nshattered faith assailed her anew, and, with a fresh burst of tears she\nturned and flung herself back upon the couch.\n\nFor a long time she lay with her face among the pillows; then, at last,\nas her angry sobs died out and the violence of her grief subsided, she\nsat up, wiped her eyes, and glanced at her dripping handkerchief.\n\n[Illustration: \"WITH A FRESH BURST OF TEARS, SHE TURNED AND FLUNG\nHERSELF UPON THE COUCH\"]\n\nAt sight of the handkerchief--a mere wisp of wet cambric--her sense of\ninjury stung her afresh, and once more her lips began to quiver; but\nfate had decided against further tears. Before her grief had gathered\nforce, the bell of the hall-door sounded once more long and loudly; and\nhard upon the sound the door of the room opened.\n\nWith a start of confusion she sprang to her feet, and turned to confront\nNorris, standing at a discreet distance, with an apologetic manner and\ndowncast eyes.\n\n\"Mr. Bale-Corphew, ma'am,\" she murmured, as Enid looked at her. \"I told\nhim you were not at home; but he said he would wait till whenever he\ncould see you, it didn't matter how long.\"\n\nWith a little cry of dismay and annoyance, Enid put her hands to her\ndisordered hair.\n\n\"Oh, how stupid of you!\" she cried, tremulously. \"You know I can't see\nhim. You know I won't see him. Tell him I'm out--ill--anything you can\nthink of--\" But her voice suddenly faltered, and her words ended in a\ngasp, as she glanced from the servant to the door, which had abruptly\nreopened, displaying the face and figure of Bale-Corphew himself.\n\nWithout hesitation he had entered the room; and without hesitation he\nwalked straight towards her.\n\n\"Forgive me!\" he exclaimed. \"I know this must seem unpardonable; but the\noccasion is without precedent. May I speak with you alone?\"\n\nIn the moment of his entry, and during his hurried greeting, Enid had\nmastered her agitation. She looked at him now with an attempt at\ncalmness.\n\n\"Certainly, if you have anything to say.\"\n\nIn the excitement under which he was obviously laboring, he did not\nobserve the coldness of the granted permission. He waited with\nill-concealed impatience until Norris had withdrawn, then he turned to\nher afresh.\n\n\"Mrs. Witcherley!\" he cried, \"you see before you an outraged man!\"\n\nHe made the announcement fiercely and theatrically; but, to any ear, it\nwould have been evident that, below the instinctive desire for dramatic\neffect, his voice trembled with genuine agitation--his speech was\ncharged with violent feeling. To Enid, watching him with surprise and\ncuriosity, it was patent at a glance that some circumstance, strange in\nits occurrence or vital in its issue, had shaken him to the base of his\nemotional nature. And as she looked at him her own coldness, her own\nhumiliation, suddenly forsook her.\n\n\"What is it?\" she cried, involuntarily. \"What is it? Something has\nhappened?\"\n\nFor one moment his answer was delayed--held back by the torrent of words\nthat rushed to his lips; then, at last, as his tongue freed itself, he\nthrew out his hands in a fierce gesture.\n\n\"Outrage! Outrage and sacrilege!\" he cried. \"We have been\nduped--deceived--tricked. We, the Chosen--the Elect!\"\n\n\"Duped? Deceived?\" She echoed the words, faintly. \"What do you mean?\nWhat has happened?\"\n\n\"Everything! Everything!\" Again he threw out his hands. \"This man that\nwe have called Prophet--this man that we have bent the knee to--he is\nnothing; nothing--\" Once more emotion overpowered his words.\n\n\"Nothing?\" Enid's voice was indistinct, her tongue dry.\n\n\"--Nothing but an impostor! An impostor! A thief!\"\n\nHe spoke loudly--even violently. To his listener it seemed that his\nvoice rang out, filling the room, filling the street outside, filling\nthe whole world. As she had done in the Prophet's presence, she raised\nher hands and pressed them over her ears. But, even through her fingers,\nhis tones came loud and penetrating.\n\n\"An impostor!\" he cried, again. \"A liar! A blasphemer!\"\n\nHer hands dropped from her face.\n\n\"Stop! Stop!\" she cried, weakly.\n\nBut he was beyond appeal.\n\n\"You must hear!\" he cried. \"It is ordained. You have been the unwitting\ninstrument by which the man has fallen.\"\n\n\"I? I? The instrument?\" She stared at him with wide eyes and a white\nface.\n\n\"Yes, you!\" He stepped to her side. \"Without you, suspicion would never\nhave been aroused. Without you, he might have carried out his base\ndesigns. It was the power of the Unseen that guided me on the day I\nentered the Presence Room and found you alone with him.\" He spoke\nhurriedly and disjointedly, but as the last word left his lips another\nexpression crossed his face, as though a new suggestion passed through\nhis mind.\n\n\"Did you see nothing strange in that Audience?\" he demanded. \"Did you\nsee nothing strange in the fact that he--a Prophet of Sublime\nMysteries--should hold your hand, as any man of the earth might hold\nit?\" He bent still closer, jealousy and suspicion darkening his face.\n\nEnid glanced at him fearfully. \"No! No!\" she said, sharply. \"I--saw\nnothing strange. He was the Prophet.\"\n\nBale-Corphew's face relaxed.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, slowly. \"I believe you. But, if _you_ were blind, _I_\nsaw.\" He paused and passed his handkerchief over his face. Cold as the\nday was, drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.\n\n\"I saw. And from that hour the man was lost.\"\n\n\"Lost?\"\n\n\"Yes, lost.\" He laughed excitedly; and to Enid the laugh sounded\nsingularly unpleasant, sharp, and cruel. \"From that day we have watched\nhim--we, the Six. We have watched him and his friend--the dog who has\ndared to desecrate the name of Precursor. We have watched them night\nand day; we have seen them, listened to them hour after hour, while they\nbelieved themselves unobserved--?\"\n\n\"And what do you know? What have you learned?\" There was a strange\nfaintness in the tone of her voice.\n\n\"Everything. Only yesterday we touched the key-stone of their scheme.\nTo-night--this very night--they have planned an escape. They will attend\nas usual in the Place; they will fool us as they have fooled us before;\nand then, when the house is quiet--when the Six are at rest, exhausted\nby prayer and meditation--they will accomplish their vile work. They\nwill plunder the Treasury of the Unseen!\"\n\n\"Oh no! No!\" With a swift movement she turned to him.\n\nHe looked at her for an instant, of silence, and then again the\nunpleasant, excited laugh escaped him.\n\n\"You are right,\" he cried, suddenly. \"What you say is right. There will\nbe no plunder. The Treasury of the Unseen will remain inviolate!\"\n\nAs he paused she made no sound; but her eyes rested upon his, fascinated\nby their feverish brightness; and in the midst of her silent regard he\nspoke again, bending forward until his lips approached her ear.\n\n\"They have laid their plans,\" he whispered, with a sudden and savage\nexultation, \"but we also have laid ours. And even we cannot reckon upon\nthe consequences. The spiritual enthusiast is not easy to hold in check,\nonce he has been aroused!\"\n\nEnid stared at him, the pupils of her eyes dilated, her lips pale.\n\n\"You mean--? You mean--?\" she stammered; then her fear found voice.\n\"What do you mean?\" she demanded, in sharp, alarmed tones.\n\nBale-Corphew met her question, steadily.\n\n\"I mean,\" he said, with fierce vindictiveness, \"that at the Gathering\nto-night he will be publicly denounced!\"\n\nHe made the declaration slowly, and each word fell with overwhelming\nweight upon his companion's understanding. As in the bewildered mazes of\na nightmare she saw the crowded chapel, the fanatical, unstable faces of\nthe congregation, the six Arch-Mystics--outraged, incensed, unrelenting;\nand in their midst the Prophet, tall and grave and masterful, as she had\nseen him a hundred times. One man facing a sea of ungoverned emotion! At\nthe vision her heart swelled suddenly and her soul sickened. With a\ngesture, almost as passionate as his own, she turned upon Bale-Corphew.\n\n\"You would denounce him before the People?\" she said, incredulously.\n\"You would trap him? One man against a hundred! Oh, it would be\ncowardly! Cruel!\"\n\nBale-Corphew's face flamed to a deeper red.\n\n\"Cowardly? Cowardly? Do you know what you are saying? The man is a\nthief!\"\n\nFor one moment she shrank before the epithet; the next she raised her\nhead, her eyes flashing, her lips parted.\n\n\"You have no right to use that word. You have not seen him steal.\"\n\n\"Seen him? No. But the ears are as reliable as the eyes, and we have\nheard him declare that he intends to steal.\"\n\n\"Intends! Intends! Intentions are not acts.\" In her deep agitation, she\nturned upon him with a new demeanor.\n\n\"Oh, be merciful!\" she cried. \"Give him the benefit of mercy. Wait till\nthe Assembly is over, and then accuse him. If you can prove your\naccusation, then justice can be done. On the other hand--\"\n\n\"The other hand?\" Again Bale-Corphew's cruel laugh broke from him. \"He\nhas not shrunk from lies--from imposture--from blasphemy. Is it likely\nhe will shrink from his reward? Oh no! We will run no risks. The trap\nhas closed. No one will gain access to him to-night until the hour of\nthe Gathering has arrived. It will be my special--my sacred--duty to\nwatch and guard.\" As he spoke his eyes seemed to devour her face, and\nbefore the expression in their depths her strength faltered.\n\n\"And why have you come here?\" she asked, unsteadily. \"Why have you come\nhere? What has this to do with me?\"\n\nAs she put the questions, he watched her closely; and when her voice\nquivered, a spasm of emotion--a wave of jealousy and suspicion--swept\nhis face.\n\n\"Can you ask that question?\" he demanded.\n\nEnid wavered.\n\n\"Why not?\" she murmured. \"Why should I not?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" He laughed again, suddenly and savagely. \"Because the man\nloves you. Because he stole out of the house to-day--and came here to\nyou. I tracked him here and tracked him back again.\"\n\nEnid shrank away from him.\n\n\"So--so you are a spy?\" she said, in a confused, uneven voice.\n\nHe turned instantly, his passions aflame.\n\n\"A spy?\" he cried. \"I am a spy? Very well! We will see who comes out\nvictor. The thief or the spy.\" His voice rose, his face darkened. The\ndemon of jealousy that had pursued him for seven days was free of the\nleash at last.\n\n\"I wanted to know this,\" he exclaimed. \"I wanted to be sure. I had my\nsuspicions, but I wanted proof. On the day I surprised you with him, I\nsuspected; to-day, when I saw him enter this house, I felt convinced--\"\n\n\"Convinced of what?\"\n\n\"Convinced that there is more in this matter than his love for you. That\nthere is also--\"\n\nWith a swift movement Enid stopped him. She was quivering violently, but\nshe held her head high.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, distinctly. \"Yes, you are quite right. There is more in\nthis matter than his love for me. There is also my love for him!\"\n\nHer eyes were blazing; her heart was beating fast. With an agitation\nequal to Bale-Corphew's own she moved to the fireplace and pressed the\nbell.\n\nWhen the servant appeared she turned to her.\n\n\"Norris,\" she said, in a quiet voice, \"show Mr. Bale-Corphew out.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nThere are few phases of human existence more interesting than that in\nwhich a young and sensitive woman is compelled by circumstances to cast\naside the pleasant artifices, the carefully modulated emotions of a\nsheltered life, and to face the realities of fact and feeling.\n\nFor twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence--toying\nwith it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice\nmorsel of food prepared for his appreciation. Now, as she stood alone in\nher small drawing-room with its costly decorations, its feminine\natmosphere, she was conscious for the first time that the banquet of\nlife is not in reality a display of delicate viands and tempting\nvintages, but a meal of common bread--sweet or bitter as destiny\ndecrees. She saw this, and with a flash of comprehension knew and\nacknowledged that her heart and her brain cried out for the wholesome\nnecessary food.\n\nAn hour ago, when the Prophet had stood before her and made his\nconfession, she had been overwhelmed by the tide of her own feelings; in\nthe rush of humiliation and disappointment--in the tremendous knowledge\nthat the image she had called gold was in reality but clay--she had been\ntoo mortified to see beyond her own horizon. In that moment their places\nin the drama had been indisputably allotted. She herself had appeared\nthe unoffending heroine, unjustly humiliated in her own eyes and in the\neyes of others; he had stood out, in unpardonable guise, the cause--the\ninstrument--of that humiliation. In the bitter knowledge she had\nconfronted him unrelentingly. A spoiled child--an unreasoning feminine\negoist.\n\nBut now that moment, with its instructive and primitive emotions, was\npassed by what seemed months--years--a century. By a process of mind as\nswift as it was subtle, the child had grown into a woman--the egoist had\nbecome conscious of another existence. With the entrance of\nBale-Corphew--with the sound of her own denunciation upon his lips--a\nnew feeling had awakened within her--a feeling stronger than\nhumiliation, stronger than pride. It had risen, blinding and dazzling\nher, as a great light might blind and dazzle; and she stood glorified\nand exalted within its radiance.\n\nAs the door had closed upon her second visitor, a long sobbing sigh of\nexcitement, of tumultuous joy and fear shook her from head to foot; she\ninvoluntarily drew her figure to its full height, and covered her face\nwith both hands, as though to ward off the light that lay across her\nworld.\n\nBut the great moment of joy and comprehension could not last; other and\nmore insistent factors were at work within her mind--claiming, even\ndemanding attention. Almost as the outer door closed upon Bale-Corphew,\nher hands dropped to her sides and an expression akin to terror crossed\nher eyes. With a mind rendered supersensitive by its own emotions, she\nrealized what the next five hours might hold; and like a tangible menace\nthe dark, angry face of the Arch-Mystic flashed back upon her\nconsciousness.\n\nWhile he had been present in the room, while his turbulent voice had\nfilled her ears, she had been only partly alive to the threatened\ndanger; but now that his presence had been removed, now that she was\nfree to sift the meaning of his words, their full significance was borne\nin upon her. With an alarming clearness of vision, she recognized that\nbehind his threats lay a definite meaning; that the man himself, at all\ntimes passionate, and, on occasion, violent in temperament, had\nsuddenly become a danger--something as fierce and menacing as an\nuncontrolled element.\n\nShe realized and understood this rapidly, as only the mind knows and\ncomprehends in moments of stress and crisis; and before her knowledge,\nall ideas save one fell away like chaff before the wind. At all\ncosts--in face of every obstacle--she must warn and save the Prophet!\n\nWith a start of apprehension, she glanced at the clock and saw that the\nhands marked ten minutes to seven. Moving to the fireplace, she once\nmore pressed the bell; and as Norris answered, turned to her, heedless\nfor perhaps the first time in her life of outward appearances.\n\n\"Get me my long black cloak, Norris,\" she said. \"And a black hat and\nveil. I am going out.\"\n\nNorris's face expressed no surprise.\n\n\"You will be back to dinner, ma'am?\" she inquired.\n\n\"No. I shall not want dinner. I may not be back till ten--perhaps\neleven. If I am late, no one need wait up.\" She walked to a mirror and\nbegan nervously smoothing her ruffled hair, while Norris left the room,\nand returned with the desired garments.\n\nWith the same nervous haste she put on her hat, tied the thick veil over\nher face, and allowed herself to be helped into her cloak. Then, without\na word, she crossed the drawing-room, passed through the hall of the\nflat, and entered the lift.\n\nAt the street-door she was compelled to wait while the hall-porter\ncalled a cab; and the momentary delay almost overtaxed her patience. An\naudible sound of relief escaped her when the clatter of hoofs and jingle\nof bells announced that the wait was over.\n\n\"St. George's Terrace!\" she ordered, in a low voice, and it seemed to\nher perturbed mind that even the stolid attendant must find something\nportentous in the words; then she sank into the corner of the cab and\nclosed her eyes, as she heard her order repeated to the cabman, and felt\nthe horse swing forward into the stream of traffic.\n\nMore than once she altered her position as the distance between\nKnightsbridge and St. George's Terrace lessened. She was devoured by\nimpatience and yet paralyzed by dread. Once, as the cab halted in a\nblock of traffic, she heard a clock strike seven, and at the sound the\nblood rushed to her face as she thought of the nearness of her ordeal;\nbut an instant later she drew out her watch to verify the time, and\npaled with sudden apprehension as she realized that the clock was slow.\n\nSo her mind oscillated until the cab drew up beside the curb; and, with\na nervous start, she heard the cabman open the trap-door.\n\n\"What number, lady?\" he asked.\n\n[Illustration: \"HER HAND WAS TREMBLING AS SHE RAISED THE HEAVY KNOCKER\"]\n\nShe answered almost guiltily: \"No number! Just stop here! Put me down\nhere!\" She rose, gathering her long cloak about her.\n\nTry as she might, she could not control her excitement, as she crossed\nthe roadway and entered Hellier Crescent after a week's absence. Her\nhand was trembling as she raised the heavy knocker on the familiar door;\nand her voice shook as she repeated the necessary formula.\n\nThere was a slight delay--a slight hesitancy on the part of the\ndoor-keeper; then the slide, which had opened at her knock, closed with\na click, and the massive door swung back.\n\nShe stepped forward eagerly, but on the moment that she entered the hall\nher heart sank. With a thrill of apprehension she saw that in place of\nthe humble member of the congregation who usually attended there, the\ntall, fair-bearded Arch-Mystic known as George Norov was guarding the\ndoor. Small though the incident might appear, it conveyed to her, as no\nspoken declaration could have done, the spirit of action and vigilance\nreigning in the House.\n\nWhile the thought flashed through her mind, Norov surveyed her from his\ngreat height.\n\n\"You are in good time, my child; the Gathering is for eight o'clock.\"\n\nShe looked up at him.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, quickly. \"I know it is for eight o'clock, but I have\ncome early. I have come because I wish--\" Her courage faltered before\nthe intent, searching gaze of his blue eyes.\n\n\"I have come,\" she added, with gathered resolution, \"because I desire\nprivate Audience with the Prophet--because there is something on my Soul\nof which I must unburden myself.\"\n\nThe Arch-Mystic looked at her and his eyes seemed cold as steel.\n\n\"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning,\" he replied, in\nan even voice.\n\nEnid flushed.\n\n\"I know that. But there are exceptions to the rule--\"\n\nThe Arch-Mystic shook his head.\n\n\"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning.\"\n\n\"But the Prophet is generous. Five minutes alone with him will satisfy\nme--three minutes--two minutes--\" Her tone quickened as her anxiety\nincreased.\n\nStill Norov's blue eyes met hers unswervingly.\n\n\"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning.\"\n\nAt the second repetition her apprehension rose to fear; and in her\nalarmed trepidation she conceived a new idea. With a rapid searching\nglance her eyes travelled over the Arch-Mystic's powerful figure, while\nshe mentally measured his physical strength with that of the Prophet.\nHer survey was short and comprehensive; and her decision came with\nequal speed. With a subtle change of manner and voice she made a fresh\nappeal. Turning to him with a gesture of deference, she spoke again in a\nsoft and conciliatory voice.\n\n\"Of course, you are right in what you say,\" she murmured. \"But I am\ngoing to make an appeal. If I may not see the Prophet in private\nAudience, then let me see him in your presence! I have only a dozen\nwords to say; and, if necessary, I will say them in your presence. You\ncan see it is urgent, when I am willing to humiliate myself. It is only\nfor her Soul that a woman will conquer her pride. You won't deny peace\nto my Soul?\" Her voice dropped, her whole expression pleaded.\n\nFor a moment--for just one moment--it seemed to her desperate gaze that\nhis hard blue eyes softened; the next, their cold, unyielding glance\ndisillusioned her of hope.\n\n\"It is useless to appeal to me,\" he said; \"but if you very much desire\nit, you can make your request to my brother Mystic--Horatio\nBale-Corphew. He is guarding the Prophet's Threshold.\"\n\nWhether the man had any glimmering of knowledge as to her private\nconnection with Bale-Corphew and the Prophet was not to be read from his\naustere face. His words might have been spoken in all innocence, or\nmight have been spoken deliberately and with malice. But in either case\nthe result, so far as his listener was concerned, was the same. A sense\nof frightened impotence fell upon her--a knowledge that her enemy had a\nlonger reach and a more powerful arm than she had guessed.\n\nBy a great effort she controlled her feelings.\n\n\"Thank you!\" she said, quietly, \"but I will not trouble Mr.\nBale-Corphew. If I may, I will wait in the Place until the Gathering is\nassembled.\"\n\nHer companion bent his head.\n\n\"Permission is granted!\" he said.\n\nFor a moment longer she stood, burning with apprehensive dread. On one\nhand was the Prophet--trapped and unaware of his peril; on the other was\nBale-Corphew--implacable, enraged, unrelaxing in his pursuit. She waited\nirresolute, until the cold, inquiring gaze of the Arch-Mystic made\naction compulsory; then, scarcely conscious of the movement, she\ninclined her head in mechanical acknowledgment of his courtesy, and,\nturning away, passed down the lofty, sombre hall.\n\nNever in after-life was she able to remember, with any degree of\ndistinctness, her threading of the familiar corridors leading to the\nchapel. Her consciousness of outer things was numbed by mental strife.\nReaching the heavy curtain that shut off the sacred precinct, she thrust\nit aside with nervous impetuosity and stood looking around the deserted\nchapel--glancing from the rows of empty chairs to the Sanctuary, where\nthe great golden Throne stood shrouded in a white cloth, and the silver\ncensers lay awaiting the flame.\n\nAt a first glance it seemed that the chapel was entirely empty, but as\nher eyes grew accustomed to the modulated light diffused by eight large\ntapers, she saw that the Sanctuary was occupied by one sombre figure\nthat flitted silently between the lectern and the Throne. For an instant\nher heart leaped, for the man was of the same height and build as the\nPrecursor; but a second glance put her hopes to flight. The Mystic\nwithin the Sanctuary was the humble member of the congregation whose\nduty it was to wait upon the Prophet.\n\nAs she passed slowly and automatically up the aisle, the man turned and\nlooked at her; but after a cursory glance returned to his task of\nsetting the Sanctuary in order.\n\nThe look and the evident unconcern chilled and daunted her anew. With a\nmovement of despair she paused, and sank into one of the empty chairs.\n\nFor a space that seemed eternal, she sat huddled in her seat--her hands\nclasped nervously in her lap; her ears alert to catch the slightest\nsound; her eyes unconsciously following the movements of the man within\nthe Sanctuary; then, suddenly and abruptly, the tension snapped; and\naction--action of some description--became imperative. She rose from her\nseat.\n\nAfter she had risen, she stood aimlessly looking about her at the\nblack-and-white walls, at the rows of chairs, at the gleaming octagonal\nsymbol that hung from the roof; then, as if magnetically attracted, her\nglance travelled back to the man inside the Sanctuary rail.\n\nThere was nothing remarkable in the spare figure, moving reverently from\none sacred object to another; but as her eyes rested on the colorless,\nascetic face, her own cheeks flushed with a new hope--a new inspiration.\nWith a quick movement she glanced furtively behind her; and, stepping\ncarefully between the chairs, regained the aisle and moved swiftly and\nnoiselessly up the chapel.\n\nHer heart was beating so fast, the nervous strain was so intense, that\nwhen she reached the railing she stood for a moment unable to command\nher voice. And when the Mystic--becoming suddenly aware of her near\npresence--turned and confronted her, a faint sound of nervous alarm\nslipped from her.\n\nFor a space the two looked at each other; and at last the man appeared\nto realize that something was expected of him. Bending his head, he\nuttered the formula of the sect.\n\n\"In what can I serve you?\"\n\nThe familiar words braced Enid. She glanced at him afresh, and in that\nglance her plan of action arranged itself. For one moment, as she had\nwalked up the aisle, her hand had sought her purse, but now, as she\nscanned the ascetic face of this unworldly servant, her fingers\ninvoluntarily loosened and the purse slipped back into her pocket. With\na new resolve, she looked him straight in the eyes.\n\n\"You can do me a great service--a very great service,\" she said,\nquietly, in her soft, clear voice.\n\nThe man looked at her in slow inquiry.\n\n\"Oh, I know you are surprised,\" she added, quickly. \"I know this seems\nunusual--\" She paused in momentary hesitation.\n\nThe Mystic appeared distressed.\n\n\"My--my duty--\" he broke in, uneasily. \"My duty is to--\"\n\nBut she checked him suddenly.\n\n[Illustration: \"I AM IN NEED OF HELP ... AND YOU CAN HELP ME\"]\n\n\"Charity is greater than duty!\" she said, in a low, impressive tone. By\nthe same feminine intuition that had made her discard her purse, she saw\nthat by a semi-mystical appeal--and by that alone--could she hope to\nsucceed. Laying her hands upon the Sanctuary railing, she leaned\nforward, and raised her large eyes to the man's face.\n\n\"Which do _you_ consider the greater virtue?\" she asked. \"Duty or\ncharity?\"\n\nThe Mystic looked at her.\n\n\"Charity,\" he said, at last, hesitatingly, \"the Prophet teaches us--\"\n\nEnid's face flushed.\n\n\"Yes! yes!\" she cried. \"The Prophet teaches us that charity is the\ngreater virtue. He tells us that we are to rely upon ourselves--and also\nupon each other. We are to help ourselves--and to help each other.\" Her\nvoice shook, her face glowed in her excitement and suspense.\n\n\"I am in need of help,\" she added. \"In desperate need. And you can help\nme.\"\n\nHer tone was urgent, her compelling gaze never faltered. She knew that\nthis was her last chance--that, if this man failed her, catastrophe was\ninevitable.\n\nThe Mystic stirred uncomfortably, and his glance turned half fearfully\nfrom the intent, appealing face to the lectern on which rested the\nwhite-bound Scitsym.\n\nWith a sudden access of enthusiasm, Enid spoke again.\n\n\"There is something troubling my Soul,\" she said. \"Something that I must\nconfess to the Prophet to-night. My whole happiness--all my\npeace--depends upon confessing it. I cannot speak with him before the\nGathering assembles; but I can write my confession. Will you save my\nSoul? Will you carry my confession to him?\"\n\nUntil the words were actually spoken, she did not realize how immensely\nshe had staked upon her chances of success. In a fever of anxiety she\nwaited, watching the man's gaze as it wavered undecidedly over the\nScitsym, then returned, as if magnetized, to her face.\n\n\"In twenty minutes the Gathering will be assembled,\" he murmured.\n\n\"I know, I know. But there is still time. It is a matter of--of\nfaith--of peace of mind.\"\n\nThe man shuffled his feet.\n\n\"It--it is impossible,\" he said.\n\n\"Why impossible?\"\n\n\"Because the Prophet is exalted to-night. The Arch-Mystics themselves\nare guarding the Threshold. The Prophet is exalted; he must not be\ndisturbed.\"\n\n\"But if it is necessary to disturb him? If there is a Soul in danger?\"\n\n\"The Prophet must not be disturbed. What are we, that we should thrust\nour wrong-doing or our sorrow upon the Mighty One?\"\n\nAt the words a rage of apprehension shook Enid. She lifted her head, and\nher fingers closed fiercely round the iron bar that topped the railing.\n\n\"Silence!\" she said, excitedly. \"You do not know what you are saying!\nThe Prophet sets his people high above himself. The message of a Soul\nin distress is of more value in his eyes than a hundred moments of\nexaltation. Take care that his wrath does not fall upon you!\"\n\nInvoluntarily the man paled.\n\n\"Yes. Take care!\" she cried. \"Take care! You have the well-being--the\nwhole future--of one Soul in your hands to-night. How will you answer to\nthe Prophet, if you fail in the trust?\"\n\nThe Mystic cowered.\n\n\"If you fail, the wrong can never be repaired. And the doing of the\naction will cost you nothing. Take this note--\" With agitated haste she\ntore a leaf from a tiny note-book that hung at her waist. \"Take this\nnote. Tell no one. Give it into the Prophet's own hands--\" She drew out\na pencil and wrote a few enigmatical words. \"Give it into his own hands;\nand I can promise you that your reward will be greater than you think.\"\nWith a rapid movement, she roiled up the paper and held it out to him.\n\n\"Take it,\" she said, impressively. \"And remember that it is something\nimportant, essential--sacred.\" On the last word her voice rose; then,\nwithout warning, it suddenly broke.\n\nA curtain at the back of the Sanctuary had been drawn aside; and for the\nsecond time that evening, the face of Bale-Corphew confronted her\nthrough the dusk.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nFor one instant Enid stood spellbound; then involuntarily she stepped\nbackward, crumpling the slip of paper in her hand.\n\nAt the same movement Bale-Corphew advanced and, passing the Mystic,\nindicated the Sanctuary curtain.\n\n\"Go!\" he commanded, in an unsteady voice. And as the man slunk away, he\nwheeled round and confronted Enid.\n\n\"So this is your action?\" he said, tremulously. \"This is your conception\nof honor? Truly, woman is the undoing of man!\" With an excited gesture,\nhe lifted his hand and extended it towards the white Scitsym lying upon\nthe lectern.\n\nBut Enid met his attack with the courage that sometimes outlives hope.\n\n\"A just man need fear no woman!\" she exclaimed. \"It is because you are\nunjust and a coward that you fear--that you suspect--that you find it\nnecessary to hide and spy.\"\n\nThe color surged over his face.\n\n\"I have been outraged!\" he cried--\"I have been outraged!\"\n\n\"And, like an unreasoning animal, you turn to devour the thing that has\nhurt you?\"\n\n\"I demand justice.\"\n\nShe threw out her hands and laughed suddenly and hysterically.\n\n\"And you call this justice? You call it justice to trap one man and set\na hundred others loose upon him?\"\n\nBut Bale-Corphew turned upon her.\n\n\"And what is this man to you?\" he cried. \"What spell has he cast upon\nyou that you can forget his outrage and his blasphemy?\"\n\nEnid met the question with her new fortitude; searching Bale-Corphew's\nturbulent face, she answered with a certain high simplicity.\n\n\"I do not know,\" she said. \"Once I believed that I admired him--that I\nlooked up to him--because he was a Prophet; something higher and better\nthan myself. Now I know that my belief was wrong and false; that it was\nbecause he is a man--because, before everything else in the world, he is\na man--that I turned to him, that I relied upon him.\"\n\nBale-Corphew gave a short, cruel laugh.\n\n\"So that is it? That is the secret? He is a man? Well, I will strip him\nof his manhood! We have had our disillusioning; yours is to come. Here,\non this sacred spot where he has been so exalted, he will bite the\ndust.\"\n\nHe paused triumphantly; and in the pause there rose again to Enid's mind\nthe picture of one tall, white-robed figure confronting a sea of\nfaces--all incensed--all passionately, vindictively unanimous in\ndesire.\n\n\"Oh no!\" she said, suddenly, faltering before the picture. \"No! No! You\ncannot. You must not. Be merciful! Let him go. And if there is\nanything--any recompense--\" But even as it was spoken, the appeal died.\nSomewhere in the heart of the House a solemn clock chimed the hour of\neight; and as though the sound were a signal, the curtain of the chapel\ndoor was drawn softly back, and a stream of dark-robed figures poured\nover the empty floor.\n\nFor a moment she stood immovable before the imminence of the crucial\nscene; then, with a sensation of physical weakness and helplessness, she\nturned, moved blindly forward, and sank into a vacant seat.\n\nAt the same moment Bale-Corphew left her without a word, and passed\nrapidly down the aisle.\n\nGreat fear frequently exercises a paralyzing effect upon the body. With\nthe undeniable knowledge that the time for action--the time for\nhope--was irrevocably passed, Enid felt deprived of the power to move.\nShe sat crouching in her seat, every sense alive and strained, but with\nlimbs that were overpowered and weighted as if by tangible fetters.\n\nThrilling to this numb and impotent sense of dread, she heard the\ndevotees enter the chapel, one after another, and pass to their chosen\nseats with soft, gliding steps. With a sickening knowledge of\napproaching catastrophe, she saw another of the unconventional\nblack-robed servants emerge from behind the Sanctuary curtain, and\nproceed with maddening deliberation to light the sixteen groups of wax\ntapers that were set at intervals along the walls. Mechanically her eyes\nfollowed the man's movements; and it seemed that each new taper that\nspat, flickered, and shot up into a light was a symbol, a portent of the\nscene to come.\n\nAs the last candle was lighted, the shuffling of feet and the stir of\ngarments that, since the entry of the first devotee, had unceasingly\nfilled the chapel suddenly subsided, and nerved to motion by the lull,\nshe turned and glanced behind her.\n\nThe scene, familiar though it was, impressed her anew. It was a strange\neffect in black and white. The black clothes of the congregation seemed\nmassed together in a sombre blur; their strained, fanatical faces looked\nwhite and set; while the marble walls shone out, sharp and polished, in\nthe same contrasting hues. Over the whole scene the concentrated light\nand accentuated shadow thrown by the great sconces glowing with tapers,\nmade a variation of tone almost as vivid as that seen on a moonlight\nnight.\n\nUnconsciously she recognized the curious, the almost barbaric\npicturesqueness of light and grouping; but her eyes had barely skimmed\nthe scene when the meaning of the hush that filled the place was brought\nhome to her mind.\n\nGlancing towards the curtain that hid the entrance, she saw the figure\nof the Prophet move slowly into the chapel and pass up the aisle,\nattended by the Precursor and the Six Arch-Mystics.\n\nHe moved forward with grave, dignified steps, and with a head held even\nhigher than usual, and reaching the Sanctuary gate, passed through it\nwithout hesitation.\n\nThe action was so calm--so natural--so like what she had witnessed night\nafter night--that Enid sat newly petrified, her senses striving to\nassociate this strong figure with the man who, only a few hours before,\nhad humiliated himself in her presence. For a moment her mind refused\nthe connection of ideas; but the next a full realization of the position\nswept over her, galvanizing her mentally and physically, as she turned\nin her seat and glanced at the seven who were following in the wake.\n\n[Illustration: \"SHE SAW THE FIGURE OF THE PROPHET ... ATTENDED BY THE\nPRECURSOR AND THE SIX ARCH-MYSTICS\"]\n\nFirst behind his master came the Precursor. And to Enid's searching\ngaze it seemed that his face was set into unfamiliar and anxious lines;\nbut under his black cap and red hair, his skin looked colorless and\ndrawn. But after the first glance, her eyes were not for him; with swift\napprehension they passed to the six Arch-Mystics who, walking two and\ntwo, formed the procession.\n\nAnimated by the speed of actual fear, her gaze passed from the\nabnormally agitated face of old Arian, the blind Arch-Councillor, to the\ndark, turbulent face of Bale-Corphew, who brought up the rear. The\nsurvey was rapid and comprehensive; and to her uneasy mind the thought\ncame with unerring certainty that, on all the six faces--differing so\nmarkedly in physical characteristics--there was a common look of\nsuppressed excitement, of suppressed resolve.\n\nAs they passed her seat, Norov turned and shot a glance of cold\ncuriosity in her direction; but otherwise the whole group seemed\nunaware of her presence. Still inert, she sat, watching every movement\nin the scene before her as one might watch a drama that would, at a\ngiven moment, cease to be entertainment and become real life.\n\nVery quietly the Prophet advanced to the Scitsym and, following the\ncustomary routine, opened it and began to read.\n\nThe words were a strange jargon of mystical counsel interspersed with\nthe relation of mystical visions and ecstasies. On ordinary lips, the\nlong, disjointed sentences and disconnected phrases would have sounded\nvague and incomprehensible; but, from the first, it had been one of the\nProphet's special gifts that his deep, grave voice could lend weight and\nmeaning to the fantastic utterances. And to-night it seemed that he\nintended to put forth all his powers; for scarcely had he opened the\nbook and begun to read, than a stir of interest passed over the\ncongregation; and even Enid, enmeshed in her own terrors, bent forward\ninvoluntarily.\n\nHe spoke very slowly, enunciating every word with studied seriousness;\nand from time to time he paused and looked across the sea of fixed and\nalmost adoring faces turned in his direction. It was as if, by strength\nof will, he had determined that no point, no syllable, of this, his last\nreading, should be lost upon his hearers. More than once, Bale-Corphew\nmoved uneasily and shot a glance at Norov; but the Prophet was\nunconscious of these surreptitious signs.\n\nFor half an hour he read on, slowly, distinctly, impressively; then,\nstill following the routine of the evening service, he closed the book\nand calmly moved across the Sanctuary to the Throne. As he neared it,\nthe Precursor stepped forward deferentially and conducted him to the\nfoot of the gilt steps.\n\nHaving ascended, he took his seat with calm impassivity and, resting his\nhands upon the arms of the great gold chair, looked out once more upon\nthe massed faces. This, according to custom, was the signal for a\ngeneral movement. The congregation swayed forward, prostrating\nthemselves upon the ground, while the Arch-Mystics gathered their wide,\nblack robes about them and assumed attitudes of rapt contemplation.\n\nIn obedience to usage, Enid also dropped upon her knees and covered her\nface with her hands. But though her pose was conventional, there was\nlittle place in her thoughts for either prayer or meditation. One\nidea--and one only--absorbed her being. How, and at what moment, must\nshe gather strength to act? She crouched upon the ground, her hands\npressed tightly over her eyes. It seemed to her that all the torture,\nall the suspense and apprehension of the universe, were gathered into\nthat half-hour of appalling silence. Once she ventured to unlace her\nfingers and glance through them fearfully; but at sight of the Prophet,\ncalm, impassive, unconscious of his threatened danger--at sight of the\nsix sombre shrouded figures that sat inside the Sanctuary railing, her\nblood turned cold and her courage quailed.\n\nWhen the sign that ended the evening's meditation was given, she rose\nwith the rest and sank weakly into her seat. Then, in dumb, stricken\nhelplessness such as envelops us in a terrible dream, she saw the\nProphet rise very slowly and stand on the steps of the Throne, looking\nsolemnly down upon the people.\n\nDuring his change of position, she sat vacillating pitiably. The\nknowledge that in a single moment he would have begun to speak spurred\nher to a fever of alarm, while a terrible nervous incapacity chained her\nlimbs and paralyzed her tongue.\n\nBale-Corphew's words rose to her mind. \"He will fool us--as he has\nfooled us before.\" In the apprehension aroused by the memory, she half\nrose in her chair, her hands grasping the back of the seat in front of\nher; but suddenly the chapel, the lights, the congregation seemed to\nfade from her vision, and she sank back into her place. The Prophet had\nbegun to speak.\n\n\"My People,\" he said, very calmly and distinctly, \"heretofore I have\nspoken to you as a teacher. To-night I will speak to you as one of\nyourselves.\"\n\nSomething in the tone--something in the words--struck a note of surprise\nand uneasiness. Again Bale-Corphew shot a swift glance at Norov, and old\nMichael Arian lifted his head and strained his sightless eyes towards\nthe Throne, while Enid's hands tightened spasmodically on the back of\nthe chair in front of her, and her lips parted in new fear. What was he\ngoing to say? How much further was he going to compromise himself? But\nthe body of the congregation swayed forward in absorbed attention, and\nthe Prophet continued to survey the fixed faces with grave, steady eyes.\n\n\"My People,\" he said, \"you are an unusual gathering. Some would call you\na gathering of fanatics--some might even call you a gathering of fools.\nBut fools, fanatics, or Mystics, you are all men and women. You are all\nhuman beings!\"\n\nOld Arian started, and Norov's cold, blue eyes flashed; but still the\nProphet was oblivious of their emotion.\n\n\"It is always well to study one's own kind; and to-night I am going to\nspeak to you of a man. I am going to tell you the story of a man--a man\nas passionate, as headstrong, as weak and vulnerable as you yourselves.\"\nHe halted for a moment, and his glance seemed to grow more concentrated,\nmore intense.\n\n\"Once, many years ago, there was a boy born here, in this city of\nLondon. Don't lose patience! My story has the merit of truth.\n\n\"There was nothing pleasant, there was nothing easy, in the\ncircumstances of this boy's birth. His first sight of the world was\ngained through the window of a tenement-house, and the picture he saw\nwas the picture of an alley--dark, foul, teeming with life. His first\nknowledge of existence was the realization of poverty--not the free,\nwholesome poverty of the country, but the grinding, sordid, continuous\npoverty of the town, that no tongue can adequately describe.\n\n\"These were his surroundings--this was his environment; and yet--so\ngreat are the miracles that love can accomplish--every day of that boy's\nlife was illumined and glorified by one presence. God in his bounty had\ngiven him a mother!\"\n\nIt was the first time in any discourse that he had mentioned the supreme\nName, and as if conscious of the tremor it aroused, he continued his\nnarrative without pause.\n\n\"To say that a boy's life is made happier by his mother's existence\nsounds too trite and obvious to bear any weight; but it is through the\nobvious facts of life that the world's machinery is kept in motion. The\ninexpressible, unwearying tenderness of this mother for her son, the\nlove of this boy for his mother, grew with the passage of time--grew\ninto something so significant, so vital and so deep, that even the\npoisonous atmosphere of the alley could not thwart its growth.\n\n\"This feeling grew in the boy's heart; and with it--by a necessary law\nof nature--another feeling took root and grew also. Fired by stories of\na past, in which wealth and position had been won by his forefathers, he\nconceived the idea of becoming in his own person a hero--a\nknight-errant. And in the grimy, common alley; in the poor, bare\nsitting-room where his mother sewed unendingly; in the dark closet under\nthe slates where at night he dreamed his child's dreams, he built\ncastles such as never stood upon the hills of Spain!\n\n\"The germ of his ambition fell into his soul like a seed of fire; and,\nlike a seed of fire, sprang into a flame. At whatever price--at whatever\nsacrifice--there must be a golden future, in which the mother he adored\nwould sit in high places; in which the worn hands would never ply a\nneedle except for pastime, the frail figure grow straight and strong,\nthe pale face warm and brighten with the colors of health!\n\n\"It was a very humble, a very young ambition, but it sprang from the\ntrue, clean source of untainted love, like which there is nothing else\nin all the world.\" He paused; and from his grave voice it seemed that a\nwave of emotion passed across the chapel. The congregation, too\nfascinated by his words to question their meaning, drew a sigh of rapt\nanticipation. Enid, amazed, bewildered, moved beyond herself, sat\nimmovable--her face pale, her great eyes fixed upon the Throne. Only the\nsix Arch-Mystics stirred uneasily, glancing at each other with quiet,\nuncertain looks.\n\nPresently, as though he had marshalled his ideas for the continuation of\nhis speech, the Prophet raised his hand.\n\n\"My People,\" he began, again, \"do not think that I am going to compel\nyou to listen to a psychological discourse upon this boy's development.\nThat is not my intention. But were I to hold up a picture for your\ninspection, you could not properly appreciate it were you ignorant of\nthe art of drawing. And so it is with my story. To understand the\ncompleted work, you must understand the manner of its growth.\n\n\"Though this boy lived in obscurity, he was bound by one link with the\ngreat things of the world. But for the unjust disinheritance of his\nfather, he would have been heir to a vast property; and through all his\nyouth, this had been the golden mirage that had floated before his\nvision--this had been the fabled country from which his castle rose.\nSteadily, unfalteringly, one idea had expanded in his mind. By some\nbrave action--by some deed of heroism--he was to win back the lost\ninheritance.\n\n\"Time passed. And with its passage the wheel of fate revolved. By one of\nthose strange chances for which no man can account, the opportunity that\nthe boy longed for fell across his path.\n\n\"It came. But it came enveloped in no cloud of glory. The path to the\nlost inheritance was steep and rugged and dark. He was called upon to\nleave his mother; to leave the place that, however sordid, however mean,\nwas yet his home; and to enter upon a period of servitude with an\nunknown master--a man related to him by blood, whom report described as\nan eccentric--a miser--a madman.\"\n\nAs he said these words a curious thing occurred. A wave of color flushed\nold Arian's sightless face; an inarticulate sound escaped him, and he\nmade a tremulous attempt to rise. But the movement was instantly checked\nby Bale-Corphew, who bent close to him and whispered quickly in his ear.\n\nNeither gesture nor whisper was noted by the Prophet. His own face had\npaled as if with some deep emotion; and lowering his raised hand, he\nspoke again with a new, suppressed intensity.\n\n\"Then began the vital period of that boy's career. He left his home--he\nleft the mother he loved--he went into voluntary exile, animated by one\npurpose. Remember that, my People! He went into the service of this man\nanimated by one purpose--the determination to win back his rightful\nfortune! And for seven weary years he continued his pursuit. For the\nseven most vital years of his youth he suppressed every instinct that\nanimates a boy!\n\n\"He worked more laboriously than the laborer in the fields, for mental\nservitude is more galling to the young than any physical strain. But he\nnever faltered; and at last he had the pride of knowing that his end was\ngained--he had the pride of knowing that he had become indispensable to\nthe master whom he served!\" Again he paused, but this time the pause was\nof impressive weight. Unconsciously, and without analyzing the feeling,\nevery member of the congregation felt that some announcement was\npending--that some extraordinary revelation was about to be made.\n\nEnid sat rigid, holding her breath in an agony of suspense, fascinated\nand appalled by the incomprehensible discourse. Behind the high\nrailing, old Michael Arian's lips moved rapidly and nervously, as though\nhe were muttering inaudible prayers; while Bale-Corphew's florid face\nflamed, as, with a rapid, agitated movement, he glanced over the tense\nfaces of the congregation. For one moment it seemed that he was bracing\nhimself for action, but before his intentions could bear fruit, the\nvoice of the Prophet again rang out across the chapel.\n\n\"My People!\" he said. \"It is now that I appeal to your humanity! It is\nnow that I ask each one of you--men and women--to stand in this boy's\nplace--this boy, built like yourselves of human desires, human hopes,\nhuman weaknesses. After seven long years he touched the knowledge that\nhe had become indispensable; and the bearer of that knowledge was\nDeath--his master's master!\n\n\"Death came; and in his chill presence the boy saw his task\ncompleted--laid aside like a written scroll!\n\n\"It was the most glorious moment of his life--that moment in which he\nstood with unshaken faith, looking towards the future. But the darker\nside of existence was his portion; he had been born to the darker side.\nWithin one hour of his master's death, his dreams were dispelled. He\nlearned that, in the eyes of the man he had served, he had never passed\nbeyond the position of the outcast--the dependent, whose services are\nliberally rewarded by the gift of a few hundred pounds. The fortune--the\ninheritance--the golden mirage, was no longer existent, save as\nsomething that did not concern him. By the disposition of his master's\nwill, it had passed into the coffers of a religious body--a fantastic,\nunknown sect to which the old man had belonged!\"\n\nThe announcement fell with strange effect. Enid, inspired by sudden\nterror, rose to her feet; Bale-Corphew sat gripping the arm of his\nchair, his face contorted, his mouth working, while a rustle, an\naudible murmur of excitement passed over the whole chapel, and the\nPrecursor, who all along had been crouching at the foot of the throne,\nturned quickly and anxiously towards his master.\n\nBut the Prophet reassured him by a gesture. It seemed that he was\nexalted by some emotion, lifted above his surroundings by some invisible\npower.\n\n\"Put yourselves in this boy's place!\" he cried. \"Was there ever a\nposition so intensely human? The thing he had striven for--the thing he\nneeded inordinately--had been wrenched from him by a band of people who,\nin his eyes, were either fools or knaves. What would you have done in\nhis position? What would have been your impulse? What your instinct? If\nI know anything of human nature, it would have been the same as\nhis--precisely, accurately the same as his!\n\n\"He had known for years of this sect to which his master belonged; and\nfor years he had held it in contempt. In his normal, youthful eyes, the\nidea of a creed that denied the high, simple theory of Christianity, and\nawaited the coming of a mythical Prophet was a subject for healthy\nscorn. And now suddenly it was forced upon his understanding that this\nanaemic sect--this mystical, anticipated Prophet--were his rivals--the\ndespoilers of his private intimate hopes.\n\n\"Such a knowledge has power to work a miracle; and in one single night\nit changed this boy into a man. Embittered, hopeless, stranded,\ninspiration came to him. He conceived the tremendous idea of entering\nupon a new fight--a second quest of the great inheritance. He conceived\nthe idea; and standing, as it were, upon a different plane of life, he\nsaw--\"\n\nBut the Prophet got no further. With a gesture of violent excitement,\nBale-Corphew rose; at the same instant the Precursor sprang to his feet\nand stood in a defensive attitude before the Throne.\n\nThe whole scene was enacted in a second. Enid, grasping its full\nmeaning, turned very white and dropped back into her seat, while the\nwhole congregation strained forward in unanimous amazement and\ncuriosity.\n\nAnd then, for the first time, the hot, angry glance of Bale-Corphew met\nthat of the Prophet. He glared at him for one moment in speechless rage,\nthen he turned to the people.\n\n\"Mystics!\" he cried, in a choked voice. \"In accordance with a solemn\nduty, I--I proclaim this man to be--\"\n\nBut before he could proceed the Precursor interrupted.\n\n\"People! Mystics!\" he cried, raising his penetrating voice. \"Is this\nright? Is this permissible?\"\n\nA murmur rose from the chapel.\n\nBale-Corphew's face became purple.\n\n\"People! hear me!\" he exclaimed. \"This man is no Prophet. He is an\nimpostor! A fraud! I have proof. I can give you proof!\"\n\nOf the extraordinary effect of these words Enid--crouching helplessly in\nher seat--saw nothing. All her senses were riveted upon one object--the\ntall, calm figure upon the steps of the Throne. By the power of\nintuition, rather than by physical observation, she saw the look of\nintense surprise, of incredulity merging to dismay, that crossed the\nProphet's face at the Arch-Mystic's words. And at the sight the real\nmeaning of his incomprehensible discourse passed over her mind in a wave\nof incredulous admiration. Believing himself secure in his position, he\nhad voluntarily chosen to denounce himself.\n\nThat was her first thought as the matter became clear to her; but a\nchilling second thought followed sharp upon it. What would be the\nProphet's reading of Bale-Corphew's knowledge? Would not one\nsolution--and one only--present itself to his mind? The idea that she\nhad betrayed his confidence. With the horror of the suggestion an\nungovernable impulse filled her--an impulse to rise--to go to him--sweep\nthe doubt from his mind. But an instant later the merely egotistical\nthought was obliterated by the greater issues that filled the moment.\n\nAfter Bale-Corphew had spoken an uproar--a clamor--had suddenly filled\nthe chapel; and now the rapt concourse of people had become as a\nturbulent sea. The Precursor, pale with intense nervous excitement,\nstood vainly striving to make his voice heard; while Bale-Corphew,\nclosely surrounded by his fellow-Mystics, gesticulated violently.\n\nAt last the Prophet raised his hand; and by habit and training, the\npeople subsided into silence.\n\nInstantly Bale-Corphew's voice rang out.\n\n\"Listen!\" he cried; \"listen!\"\n\nBut again the Precursor interrupted.\n\n\"People,\" he demanded, \"will you refuse the Prophet the right of speech?\nWill you refuse to hear the Prophet's words?\"\n\n\"This is sacrilege! Sacrilege!\" Norov suddenly raised his voice. \"Listen\nto your Councillor!\"\n\n\"Listen to the Prophet! The Voice of the Prophet calls upon you. Will\nyou deny it?\" The Precursor's voice shook with excitement.\n\n\"This is the truth! I tell you the truth!\" Bale-Corphew appealed to the\npeople with out-stretched arms.\n\nBut the tumult broke forth again.\n\n\"Mystics! Mystics!\" Old Arian's shrill, alarmed tones rose for an\ninstant, only to be drowned in the clamor.\n\nThen out of the confused babel of sound one cry became distinguishable.\n\n\"The Prophet! The Prophet! Let the Prophet speak!\"\n\nFor a space confusion reigned; then, answering to the demand, the\nProphet again lifted his right hand.\n\nAs though it exercised some potent spell, his calm, imperious gesture\nsubdued the turmoil. When silence had been restored he began to speak;\nand never, since he had addressed the first Gathering, had so deep a\nnote of domination and decision been audible in his voice.\n\n\"Mystics!\" he cried, \"there is no time for preamble or delay. As the\nArch-Mystic says, you must have truth! Perhaps there is no need to tell\nyou that the history I have just related to you has an imminent bearing\nupon your lives and mine. You probably know, without my telling, that\nthe boy of my story and I are one and the same person; that the fanatic\nsect, for which I was made a beggar, is your own sect--the sect of the\nMystics. But so it is. On a wild, dark night ten years ago I learned\nthat the money which should have been mine--the money which should have\nbeen the recompense for my mother's hard life--had been given to you.\nGiven for the use of a Prophet in whose coming you believed!\n\n\"My feelings on that night were the criminal feelings that underlie all\ncivilization. I had only one desire--to destroy--to be avenged. My\nuncle, Andrew Henderson, was an Arch-Mystic of your sect; and on the\nnight he died, your sacred Scitsym was in his house!\"\n\nThe congregation thrilled, and the blind Arch-Councillor turned and\nclutched Bale-Corphew's arm.\n\n\"My first impulse was to destroy that book. Look at it, look at it!\" He\npointed to the lectern. \"Ten years ago, I knelt before a fire with its\npages in my hand, and black thoughts of revenge in my heart. But the\ndevil of temptation lurks in strange places. In the very act of\ndestruction, an inspiration came to me. A man was expected! A Prophet\nwas expected! And in the pages of the Scitsym were contained the\nattributes, the secret signs, the manifold ways in which he was to make\ngood his claim.\n\n\"I come of an obstinate stock--of a stock that in the past has overcome\nmany obstacles. That night I copied out the whole of your Scitsym, and\nafterwards, as soon as I reasonably could, I left Scotland.\n\n\"I went at once to my mother; I told her that, according to the\ndisposition of my uncle's will, I was to inherit his fortune in ten\nyears' time, and that in the interval I was to fit myself for wealth by\nprofound study. It was the first time in all my life that I had lied to\nher!\n\n\"But to come to the end, your Prophet was to be a student of Eastern\nlore. With this knowledge in my mind, I started with my mother for the\nEast. What has happened since then is immaterial. My second probation\nhas been as hard as my first. But I accomplished two things. I fitted\nmyself mentally and physically for the part I was going to play, and I\nmade one stanch, wholly disinterested friend!\" With a gesture of grave\naffection, he indicated the Precursor.\n\nIn the opportunity that the slight pause gave, Bale-Corphew sprang\nforward and, resting his hands upon the Sanctuary railing, faced the\ncongregation.\n\n\"People!\" he cried, hoarsely, \"be not deceived! This man pretends to\ntell you what he is. He is blinding you--weaving a bandage of specious\nwords across your eyes. But I will undeceive you. I will tear the\nbandage--\" He hesitated, stammered, paused.\n\nWith a movement full of fire, full of authority, the Prophet stepped\nfrom the Throne.\n\n\"Silence!\" he cried. \"There is no need for interference. This matter is\nbetween the People and myself.\" With a pale face and burning eyes he\nstepped forward, and standing beside the Arch-Mystic confronted the\ncongregation.\n\n\"I will tell you everything that this man would tell you,\" he said, in a\nsteady voice. \"I believe I will even use the word he himself would\nchoose. I am a thief! I am a thief--in intention if not in act!\"\n\nThe effect of the word was tremendous. A perfectly audible gasp went up\nfrom the breathless crowd; and, by one accord, the people rose and\nswayed upward towards the Sanctuary.\n\nCalm and immovable as a rock, the Prophet held his place.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, steadily, \"until this morning I have virtually been a\nthief. Until this morning it was my firm intention to take by force that\nwhich should have come to me as my right. The fact that my intention\nfaltered at the last moment does not affect the case. I wish to make no\nappeal. My desire\"--his voice suddenly quickened--\"my desire is plainly\nand simply to state my case.\n\n\"Morally I have done you no wrong. My teaching has been the expounding\nof simple truths, that my personal action could not desecrate. I stand\nbefore you to-night empty-handed as I came. The one thing I claim from\nyou is judgment!\n\n\"Judge me! I am in your hands. If you think I deserve punishment, punish\nme! If you think circumstances have made me what I am, then stand aside!\nLet me pass out of your lives!\"\n\nThere was a great silence; then a woman's sharp cry rang out across the\nchapel, as, with a savage movement, three of the Arch-Mystics sprang\nupon the Prophet.\n\n\"Sacrilege! Sacrilege!\" Bale-Corphew's voice rose loud and violent.\n\nBut he had calculated without his host. The fanaticism of a crowd is a\ndangerous weapon with which to tamper, and the dethronement of a king is\nnot accomplished in a day. With the speed of light, the element he had\nunloosed turned upon himself.\n\nAgain one word disentangled itself from the medley of sounds.\n\n\"The Prophet! The Prophet!\" Like an ignited fuse, instinct had\nbeen lighted in the people. The man who for months had been\nexalted--honored--well-nigh worshipped--was in imminent peril!\nThat one thought submerged and demolished every other.\n\nThere was a forward movement--a roar--a crash--and the high, gilt\nrailings of the Sanctuary went down as before a storm.\n\nTo Enid, who had been borne irresistibly upward on the human tide, there\nwas one overpowering moment of fear and clamor, in which the cry of \"The\nProphet! The Prophet!\" dominated her consciousness; then, to her, the\nworld became suddenly and mercifully sightless, soundless, and void.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen at last her eyes opened--when at last her senses falteringly\nreturned to the consciousness of present things--she was in her own\nfamiliar room. The atmosphere breathed of repose and peace; through the\ndrawn curtains the hum of London came subdued and soothing; in the room\nitself the lights were modulated and the fire glowed soft and mellow,\nwhile a faint, pungent smell of restoratives filled the air. But these\ndetails came but vaguely to her appreciation, for the first object upon\nwhich her glance and her ideas rested was the figure of John Henderson,\nkneeling beside the couch on which she lay.\n\nFor a long, silent space she gazed bewildered into the grave face bent\nover her own--striving to fathom whether this was another phase of an\nextraordinarily prolonged and harassing dream, or whether it had any\nbearing upon real life; then, as the pained, bewildered sensation\ndeepened in her mind, it was suddenly illumined by a flash of\nrecollection; and starting up, she caught Henderson's hand.\n\nBut before she could speak he laid his fingers gently over her eyes.\n\n\"You are not to think,\" he said. \"To-night is past.\"\n\n\"But Hellier Crescent? What happened after--after--?\"\n\nAgain he made a soothing movement.\n\n\"You must not think of it. They gathered round me. They were generous.\nThey heaped coals of fire.\"\n\nEnid lay silent, conscious with a keen yet poignant pleasure of his hand\nupon her face. Then suddenly a new thought obtruded itself, and drawing\naway his fingers, she looked up into his face.\n\n\"And after to-night--?\" she said, in a low, unsteady voice.\n\nFor a moment he did not answer, and in the soft light it seemed to her\nthat a shadow of pain passed over his face.\n\nAgain she put out her hand and touched his.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" she asked, below her breath.\n\nAt last he raised his head and looked fully at her.\n\n\"I am going back to the East. The hardest task of my life is awaiting me\nthere. It is a very bitter thing to disillusionize the person to whom\none is a hero.\"\n\nShe looked at him quickly.\n\n\"You are speaking of your mother? You are thinking of your mother?\"\n\nHe bent his head.\n\nFor a space neither spoke. Vaguely, and in distant accompaniment to\ntheir thoughts, each was conscious of the hum of traffic and of the\nsoftly crackling fire; then at last Enid stirred, and with a gesture\nfull of comprehension, her fingers closed round Henderson's.\n\n\"Let me tell her the story!\" she said, almost inaudibly. \"Take me with\nyou--and let me tell her! We are both women, and--\" Her head drooped\nslightly; and her face flushed. \"And we both love you.\"","title":"The Mystics: A Novel","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":27807}