CHAPTER VIII

When she realized this fact, Enid rose from her seat with a murmur of dismay. In her sharply feminine sense of loss, she took one involuntary step towards the door; but almost as the step was taken, her anger, her shattered faith assailed her anew, and, with a fresh burst of tears she turned and flung herself back upon the couch.

For a long time she lay with her face among the pillows; then, at last, as her angry sobs died out and the violence of her grief subsided, she sat up, wiped her eyes, and glanced at her dripping handkerchief.



At sight of the handkerchief—a mere wisp of wet cambric—her sense of injury stung her afresh, and once more her lips began to quiver; but fate had decided against further tears. Before her grief had gathered force, the bell of the hall-door sounded once more long and loudly; and hard upon the sound the door of the room opened.

With a start of confusion she sprang to her feet, and turned to confront Norris, standing at a discreet distance, with an apologetic manner and downcast eyes.

"Mr. Bale-Corphew, ma'am," she murmured, as Enid looked at her. "I told him you were not at home; but he said he would wait till whenever he could see you, it didn't matter how long."

With a little cry of dismay and annoyance, Enid put her hands to her disordered hair.

"Oh, how stupid of you!" she cried, tremulously. "You know I can't see him. You know I won't see him. Tell him I'm out—ill—anything you can think of—" But her voice suddenly faltered, and her words ended in a gasp, as she glanced from the servant to the door, which had abruptly reopened, displaying the face and figure of Bale-Corphew himself.

Without hesitation he had entered the room; and without hesitation he walked straight towards her.

"Forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I know this must seem unpardonable; but the occasion is without precedent. May I speak with you alone?"

In the moment of his entry, and during his hurried greeting, Enid had mastered her agitation. She looked at him now with an attempt at calmness.

"Certainly, if you have anything to say."

In the excitement under which he was obviously laboring, he did not observe the coldness of the granted permission. He waited with ill-concealed impatience until Norris had withdrawn, then he turned to her afresh.

"Mrs. Witcherley!" he cried, "you see before you an outraged man!"

He made the announcement fiercely and theatrically; but, to any ear, it would have been evident that, below the instinctive desire for dramatic effect, his voice trembled with genuine agitation—his speech was charged with violent feeling. To Enid, watching him with surprise and curiosity, it was patent at a glance that some circumstance, strange in its occurrence or vital in its issue, had shaken him to the base of his emotional nature. And as she looked at him her own coldness, her own humiliation, suddenly forsook her.

"What is it?" she cried, involuntarily. "What is it? Something has happened?"

For one moment his answer was delayed—held back by the torrent of words that rushed to his lips; then, at last, as his tongue freed itself, he threw out his hands in a fierce gesture.

"Outrage! Outrage and sacrilege!" he cried. "We have been duped—deceived—tricked. We, the Chosen—the Elect!"

"Duped? Deceived?" She echoed the words, faintly. "What do you mean? What has happened?"

"Everything! Everything!" Again he threw out his hands. "This man that we have called Prophet—this man that we have bent the knee to—he is nothing; nothing—" Once more emotion overpowered his words.

"Nothing?" Enid's voice was indistinct, her tongue dry.

"—Nothing but an impostor! An impostor! A thief!"

He spoke loudly—even violently. To his listener it seemed that his voice rang out, filling the room, filling the street outside, filling the whole world. As she had done in the Prophet's presence, she raised her hands and pressed them over her ears. But, even through her fingers, his tones came loud and penetrating.

"An impostor!" he cried, again. "A liar! A blasphemer!"

Her hands dropped from her face.

"Stop! Stop!" she cried, weakly.

But he was beyond appeal.

"You must hear!" he cried. "It is ordained. You have been the unwitting instrument by which the man has fallen."

"I? I? The instrument?" She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face.

"Yes, you!" He stepped to her side. "Without you, suspicion would never have been aroused. Without you, he might have carried out his base designs. It was the power of the Unseen that guided me on the day I entered the Presence Room and found you alone with him." He spoke hurriedly and disjointedly, but as the last word left his lips another expression crossed his face, as though a new suggestion passed through his mind.

"Did you see nothing strange in that Audience?" he demanded. "Did you see nothing strange in the fact that he—a Prophet of Sublime Mysteries—should hold your hand, as any man of the earth might hold it?" He bent still closer, jealousy and suspicion darkening his face.

Enid glanced at him fearfully. "No! No!" she said, sharply. "I—saw nothing strange. He was the Prophet."

Bale-Corphew's face relaxed.

"Ah!" he said, slowly. "I believe you. But, if you were blind, I saw." He paused and passed his handkerchief over his face. Cold as the day was, drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.

"I saw. And from that hour the man was lost."

"Lost?"

"Yes, lost." He laughed excitedly; and to Enid the laugh sounded singularly unpleasant, sharp, and cruel. "From that day we have watched him—we, the Six. We have watched him and his friend—the dog who has dared to desecrate the name of Precursor. We have watched them night and day; we have seen them, listened to them hour after hour, while they believed themselves unobserved—?"

"And what do you know? What have you learned?" There was a strange faintness in the tone of her voice.

"Everything. Only yesterday we touched the key-stone of their scheme. To-night—this very night—they have planned an escape. They will attend as usual in the Place; they will fool us as they have fooled us before; and then, when the house is quiet—when the Six are at rest, exhausted by prayer and meditation—they will accomplish their vile work. They will plunder the Treasury of the Unseen!"

"Oh no! No!" With a swift movement she turned to him.

He looked at her for an instant, of silence, and then again the unpleasant, excited laugh escaped him.

"You are right," he cried, suddenly. "What you say is right. There will be no plunder. The Treasury of the Unseen will remain inviolate!"

As he paused she made no sound; but her eyes rested upon his, fascinated by their feverish brightness; and in the midst of her silent regard he spoke again, bending forward until his lips approached her ear.

"They have laid their plans," he whispered, with a sudden and savage exultation, "but we also have laid ours. And even we cannot reckon upon the consequences. The spiritual enthusiast is not easy to hold in check, once he has been aroused!"

Enid stared at him, the pupils of her eyes dilated, her lips pale.

"You mean—? You mean—?" she stammered; then her fear found voice. "What do you mean?" she demanded, in sharp, alarmed tones.

Bale-Corphew met her question, steadily.

"I mean," he said, with fierce vindictiveness, "that at the Gathering to-night he will be publicly denounced!"

He made the declaration slowly, and each word fell with overwhelming weight upon his companion's understanding. As in the bewildered mazes of a nightmare she saw the crowded chapel, the fanatical, unstable faces of the congregation, the six Arch-Mystics—outraged, incensed, unrelenting; and in their midst the Prophet, tall and grave and masterful, as she had seen him a hundred times. One man facing a sea of ungoverned emotion! At the vision her heart swelled suddenly and her soul sickened. With a gesture, almost as passionate as his own, she turned upon Bale-Corphew.

"You would denounce him before the People?" she said, incredulously. "You would trap him? One man against a hundred! Oh, it would be cowardly! Cruel!"

Bale-Corphew's face flamed to a deeper red.

"Cowardly? Cowardly? Do you know what you are saying? The man is a thief!"

For one moment she shrank before the epithet; the next she raised her head, her eyes flashing, her lips parted.

"You have no right to use that word. You have not seen him steal."

"Seen him? No. But the ears are as reliable as the eyes, and we have heard him declare that he intends to steal."

"Intends! Intends! Intentions are not acts." In her deep agitation, she turned upon him with a new demeanor.

"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Give him the benefit of mercy. Wait till the Assembly is over, and then accuse him. If you can prove your accusation, then justice can be done. On the other hand—"

"The other hand?" Again Bale-Corphew's cruel laugh broke from him. "He has not shrunk from lies—from imposture—from blasphemy. Is it likely he will shrink from his reward? Oh no! We will run no risks. The trap has closed. No one will gain access to him to-night until the hour of the Gathering has arrived. It will be my special—my sacred—duty to watch and guard." As he spoke his eyes seemed to devour her face, and before the expression in their depths her strength faltered.

"And why have you come here?" she asked, unsteadily. "Why have you come here? What has this to do with me?"

As she put the questions, he watched her closely; and when her voice quivered, a spasm of emotion—a wave of jealousy and suspicion—swept his face.

"Can you ask that question?" he demanded.

Enid wavered.

"Why not?" she murmured. "Why should I not?"

"Why not?" He laughed again, suddenly and savagely. "Because the man loves you. Because he stole out of the house to-day—and came here to you. I tracked him here and tracked him back again."

Enid shrank away from him.

"So—so you are a spy?" she said, in a confused, uneven voice.

He turned instantly, his passions aflame.

"A spy?" he cried. "I am a spy? Very well! We will see who comes out victor. The thief or the spy." His voice rose, his face darkened. The demon of jealousy that had pursued him for seven days was free of the leash at last.

"I wanted to know this," he exclaimed. "I wanted to be sure. I had my suspicions, but I wanted proof. On the day I surprised you with him, I suspected; to-day, when I saw him enter this house, I felt convinced—"

"Convinced of what?"

"Convinced that there is more in this matter than his love for you. That there is also—"

With a swift movement Enid stopped him. She was quivering violently, but she held her head high.

"Yes," she said, distinctly. "Yes, you are quite right. There is more in this matter than his love for me. There is also my love for him!"

Her eyes were blazing; her heart was beating fast. With an agitation equal to Bale-Corphew's own she moved to the fireplace and pressed the bell.

When the servant appeared she turned to her.

"Norris," she said, in a quiet voice, "show Mr. Bale-Corphew out."



CHAPTER IX

There are few phases of human existence more interesting than that in which a young and sensitive woman is compelled by circumstances to cast aside the pleasant artifices, the carefully modulated emotions of a sheltered life, and to face the realities of fact and feeling.

For twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence—toying with it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice morsel of food prepared for his appreciation. Now, as she stood alone in her small drawing-room with its costly decorations, its feminine atmosphere, she was conscious for the first time that the banquet of life is not in reality a display of delicate viands and tempting vintages, but a meal of common bread—sweet or bitter as destiny decrees. She saw this, and with a flash of comprehension knew and acknowledged that her heart and her brain cried out for the wholesome necessary food.

An hour ago, when the Prophet had stood before her and made his confession, she had been overwhelmed by the tide of her own feelings; in the rush of humiliation and disappointment—in the tremendous knowledge that the image she had called gold was in reality but clay—she had been too mortified to see beyond her own horizon. In that moment their places in the drama had been indisputably allotted. She herself had appeared the unoffending heroine, unjustly humiliated in her own eyes and in the eyes of others; he had stood out, in unpardonable guise, the cause—the instrument—of that humiliation. In the bitter knowledge she had confronted him unrelentingly. A spoiled child—an unreasoning feminine egoist.

But now that moment, with its instructive and primitive emotions, was passed by what seemed months—years—a century. By a process of mind as swift as it was subtle, the child had grown into a woman—the egoist had become conscious of another existence. With the entrance of Bale-Corphew—with the sound of her own denunciation upon his lips—a new feeling had awakened within her—a feeling stronger than humiliation, stronger than pride. It had risen, blinding and dazzling her, as a great light might blind and dazzle; and she stood glorified and exalted within its radiance.

As the door had closed upon her second visitor, a long sobbing sigh of excitement, of tumultuous joy and fear shook her from head to foot; she involuntarily drew her figure to its full height, and covered her face with both hands, as though to ward off the light that lay across her world.

But the great moment of joy and comprehension could not last; other and more insistent factors were at work within her mind—claiming, even demanding attention. Almost as the outer door closed upon Bale-Corphew, her hands dropped to her sides and an expression akin to terror crossed her eyes. With a mind rendered supersensitive by its own emotions, she realized what the next five hours might hold; and like a tangible menace the dark, angry face of the Arch-Mystic flashed back upon her consciousness.

While he had been present in the room, while his turbulent voice had filled her ears, she had been only partly alive to the threatened danger; but now that his presence had been removed, now that she was free to sift the meaning of his words, their full significance was borne in upon her. With an alarming clearness of vision, she recognized that behind his threats lay a definite meaning; that the man himself, at all times passionate, and, on occasion, violent in temperament, had suddenly become a danger—something as fierce and menacing as an uncontrolled element.

She realized and understood this rapidly, as only the mind knows and comprehends in moments of stress and crisis; and before her knowledge, all ideas save one fell away like chaff before the wind. At all costs—in face of every obstacle—she must warn and save the Prophet!

With a start of apprehension, she glanced at the clock and saw that the hands marked ten minutes to seven. Moving to the fireplace, she once more pressed the bell; and as Norris answered, turned to her, heedless for perhaps the first time in her life of outward appearances.

"Get me my long black cloak, Norris," she said. "And a black hat and veil. I am going out."

Norris's face expressed no surprise.

"You will be back to dinner, ma'am?" she inquired.

"No. I shall not want dinner. I may not be back till ten—perhaps eleven. If I am late, no one need wait up." She walked to a mirror and began nervously smoothing her ruffled hair, while Norris left the room, and returned with the desired garments.

With the same nervous haste she put on her hat, tied the thick veil over her face, and allowed herself to be helped into her cloak. Then, without a word, she crossed the drawing-room, passed through the hall of the flat, and entered the lift.

At the street-door she was compelled to wait while the hall-porter called a cab; and the momentary delay almost overtaxed her patience. An audible sound of relief escaped her when the clatter of hoofs and jingle of bells announced that the wait was over.

"St. George's Terrace!" she ordered, in a low voice, and it seemed to her perturbed mind that even the stolid attendant must find something portentous in the words; then she sank into the corner of the cab and closed her eyes, as she heard her order repeated to the cabman, and felt the horse swing forward into the stream of traffic.

More than once she altered her position as the distance between Knightsbridge and St. George's Terrace lessened. She was devoured by impatience and yet paralyzed by dread. Once, as the cab halted in a block of traffic, she heard a clock strike seven, and at the sound the blood rushed to her face as she thought of the nearness of her ordeal; but an instant later she drew out her watch to verify the time, and paled with sudden apprehension as she realized that the clock was slow.

So her mind oscillated until the cab drew up beside the curb; and, with a nervous start, she heard the cabman open the trap-door.

"What number, lady?" he asked.



She answered almost guiltily: "No number! Just stop here! Put me down here!" She rose, gathering her long cloak about her.

Try as she might, she could not control her excitement, as she crossed the roadway and entered Hellier Crescent after a week's absence. Her hand was trembling as she raised the heavy knocker on the familiar door; and her voice shook as she repeated the necessary formula.

There was a slight delay—a slight hesitancy on the part of the door-keeper; then the slide, which had opened at her knock, closed with a click, and the massive door swung back.

She stepped forward eagerly, but on the moment that she entered the hall her heart sank. With a thrill of apprehension she saw that in place of the humble member of the congregation who usually attended there, the tall, fair-bearded Arch-Mystic known as George Norov was guarding the door. Small though the incident might appear, it conveyed to her, as no spoken declaration could have done, the spirit of action and vigilance reigning in the House.

While the thought flashed through her mind, Norov surveyed her from his great height.

"You are in good time, my child; the Gathering is for eight o'clock."

She looked up at him.

"Yes," she said, quickly. "I know it is for eight o'clock, but I have come early. I have come because I wish—" Her courage faltered before the intent, searching gaze of his blue eyes.

"I have come," she added, with gathered resolution, "because I desire private Audience with the Prophet—because there is something on my Soul of which I must unburden myself."

The Arch-Mystic looked at her and his eyes seemed cold as steel.

"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning," he replied, in an even voice.

Enid flushed.

"I know that. But there are exceptions to the rule—"

The Arch-Mystic shook his head.

"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."

"But the Prophet is generous. Five minutes alone with him will satisfy me—three minutes—two minutes—" Her tone quickened as her anxiety increased.

Still Norov's blue eyes met hers unswervingly.

"The Prophet holds private Audience only in the morning."

At the second repetition her apprehension rose to fear; and in her alarmed trepidation she conceived a new idea. With a rapid searching glance her eyes travelled over the Arch-Mystic's powerful figure, while she mentally measured his physical strength with that of the Prophet. Her survey was short and comprehensive; and her decision came with equal speed. With a subtle change of manner and voice she made a fresh appeal. Turning to him with a gesture of deference, she spoke again in a soft and conciliatory voice.

"Of course, you are right in what you say," she murmured. "But I am going to make an appeal. If I may not see the Prophet in private Audience, then let me see him in your presence! I have only a dozen words to say; and, if necessary, I will say them in your presence. You can see it is urgent, when I am willing to humiliate myself. It is only for her Soul that a woman will conquer her pride. You won't deny peace to my Soul?" Her voice dropped, her whole expression pleaded.

For a moment—for just one moment—it seemed to her desperate gaze that his hard blue eyes softened; the next, their cold, unyielding glance disillusioned her of hope.

"It is useless to appeal to me," he said; "but if you very much desire it, you can make your request to my brother Mystic—Horatio Bale-Corphew. He is guarding the Prophet's Threshold."

Whether the man had any glimmering of knowledge as to her private connection with Bale-Corphew and the Prophet was not to be read from his austere face. His words might have been spoken in all innocence, or might have been spoken deliberately and with malice. But in either case the result, so far as his listener was concerned, was the same. A sense of frightened impotence fell upon her—a knowledge that her enemy had a longer reach and a more powerful arm than she had guessed.

By a great effort she controlled her feelings.

"Thank you!" she said, quietly, "but I will not trouble Mr. Bale-Corphew. If I may, I will wait in the Place until the Gathering is assembled."

Her companion bent his head.

"Permission is granted!" he said.

For a moment longer she stood, burning with apprehensive dread. On one hand was the Prophet—trapped and unaware of his peril; on the other was Bale-Corphew—implacable, enraged, unrelaxing in his pursuit. She waited irresolute, until the cold, inquiring gaze of the Arch-Mystic made action compulsory; then, scarcely conscious of the movement, she inclined her head in mechanical acknowledgment of his courtesy, and, turning away, passed down the lofty, sombre hall.

Never in after-life was she able to remember, with any degree of distinctness, her threading of the familiar corridors leading to the chapel. Her consciousness of outer things was numbed by mental strife. Reaching the heavy curtain that shut off the sacred precinct, she thrust it aside with nervous impetuosity and stood looking around the deserted chapel—glancing from the rows of empty chairs to the Sanctuary, where the great golden Throne stood shrouded in a white cloth, and the silver censers lay awaiting the flame.

At a first glance it seemed that the chapel was entirely empty, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the modulated light diffused by eight large tapers, she saw that the Sanctuary was occupied by one sombre figure that flitted silently between the lectern and the Throne. For an instant her heart leaped, for the man was of the same height and build as the Precursor; but a second glance put her hopes to flight. The Mystic within the Sanctuary was the humble member of the congregation whose duty it was to wait upon the Prophet.

As she passed slowly and automatically up the aisle, the man turned and looked at her; but after a cursory glance returned to his task of setting the Sanctuary in order.

The look and the evident unconcern chilled and daunted her anew. With a movement of despair she paused, and sank into one of the empty chairs.

For a space that seemed eternal, she sat huddled in her seat—her hands clasped nervously in her lap; her ears alert to catch the slightest sound; her eyes unconsciously following the movements of the man within the Sanctuary; then, suddenly and abruptly, the tension snapped; and action—action of some description—became imperative. She rose from her seat.

After she had risen, she stood aimlessly looking about her at the black-and-white walls, at the rows of chairs, at the gleaming octagonal symbol that hung from the roof; then, as if magnetically attracted, her glance travelled back to the man inside the Sanctuary rail.

There was nothing remarkable in the spare figure, moving reverently from one sacred object to another; but as her eyes rested on the colorless, ascetic face, her own cheeks flushed with a new hope—a new inspiration. With a quick movement she glanced furtively behind her; and, stepping carefully between the chairs, regained the aisle and moved swiftly and noiselessly up the chapel.

Her heart was beating so fast, the nervous strain was so intense, that when she reached the railing she stood for a moment unable to command her voice. And when the Mystic—becoming suddenly aware of her near presence—turned and confronted her, a faint sound of nervous alarm slipped from her.

For a space the two looked at each other; and at last the man appeared to realize that something was expected of him. Bending his head, he uttered the formula of the sect.

"In what can I serve you?"

The familiar words braced Enid. She glanced at him afresh, and in that glance her plan of action arranged itself. For one moment, as she had walked up the aisle, her hand had sought her purse, but now, as she scanned the ascetic face of this unworldly servant, her fingers involuntarily loosened and the purse slipped back into her pocket. With a new resolve, she looked him straight in the eyes.

"You can do me a great service—a very great service," she said, quietly, in her soft, clear voice.

The man looked at her in slow inquiry.

"Oh, I know you are surprised," she added, quickly. "I know this seems unusual—" She paused in momentary hesitation.

The Mystic appeared distressed.

"My—my duty—" he broke in, uneasily. "My duty is to—"

But she checked him suddenly.



"Charity is greater than duty!" she said, in a low, impressive tone. By the same feminine intuition that had made her discard her purse, she saw that by a semi-mystical appeal—and by that alone—could she hope to succeed. Laying her hands upon the Sanctuary railing, she leaned forward, and raised her large eyes to the man's face.

"Which do you consider the greater virtue?" she asked. "Duty or charity?"

The Mystic looked at her.

"Charity," he said, at last, hesitatingly, "the Prophet teaches us—"

Enid's face flushed.

"Yes! yes!" she cried. "The Prophet teaches us that charity is the greater virtue. He tells us that we are to rely upon ourselves—and also upon each other. We are to help ourselves—and to help each other." Her voice shook, her face glowed in her excitement and suspense.

"I am in need of help," she added. "In desperate need. And you can help me."

Her tone was urgent, her compelling gaze never faltered. She knew that this was her last chance—that, if this man failed her, catastrophe was inevitable.

The Mystic stirred uncomfortably, and his glance turned half fearfully from the intent, appealing face to the lectern on which rested the white-bound Scitsym.

With a sudden access of enthusiasm, Enid spoke again.

"There is something troubling my Soul," she said. "Something that I must confess to the Prophet to-night. My whole happiness—all my peace—depends upon confessing it. I cannot speak with him before the Gathering assembles; but I can write my confession. Will you save my Soul? Will you carry my confession to him?"

Until the words were actually spoken, she did not realize how immensely she had staked upon her chances of success. In a fever of anxiety she waited, watching the man's gaze as it wavered undecidedly over the Scitsym, then returned, as if magnetized, to her face.

"In twenty minutes the Gathering will be assembled," he murmured.

"I know, I know. But there is still time. It is a matter of—of faith—of peace of mind."

The man shuffled his feet.

"It—it is impossible," he said.

"Why impossible?"

"Because the Prophet is exalted to-night. The Arch-Mystics themselves are guarding the Threshold. The Prophet is exalted; he must not be disturbed."

"But if it is necessary to disturb him? If there is a Soul in danger?"

"The Prophet must not be disturbed. What are we, that we should thrust our wrong-doing or our sorrow upon the Mighty One?"

At the words a rage of apprehension shook Enid. She lifted her head, and her fingers closed fiercely round the iron bar that topped the railing.

"Silence!" she said, excitedly. "You do not know what you are saying! The Prophet sets his people high above himself. The message of a Soul in distress is of more value in his eyes than a hundred moments of exaltation. Take care that his wrath does not fall upon you!"

Involuntarily the man paled.

"Yes. Take care!" she cried. "Take care! You have the well-being—the whole future—of one Soul in your hands to-night. How will you answer to the Prophet, if you fail in the trust?"

The Mystic cowered.

"If you fail, the wrong can never be repaired. And the doing of the action will cost you nothing. Take this note—" With agitated haste she tore a leaf from a tiny note-book that hung at her waist. "Take this note. Tell no one. Give it into the Prophet's own hands—" She drew out a pencil and wrote a few enigmatical words. "Give it into his own hands; and I can promise you that your reward will be greater than you think." With a rapid movement, she roiled up the paper and held it out to him.

"Take it," she said, impressively. "And remember that it is something important, essential—sacred." On the last word her voice rose; then, without warning, it suddenly broke.

A curtain at the back of the Sanctuary had been drawn aside; and for the second time that evening, the face of Bale-Corphew confronted her through the dusk.



CHAPTER X

For one instant Enid stood spellbound; then involuntarily she stepped backward, crumpling the slip of paper in her hand.

At the same movement Bale-Corphew advanced and, passing the Mystic, indicated the Sanctuary curtain.

"Go!" he commanded, in an unsteady voice. And as the man slunk away, he wheeled round and confronted Enid.

"So this is your action?" he said, tremulously. "This is your conception of honor? Truly, woman is the undoing of man!" With an excited gesture, he lifted his hand and extended it towards the white Scitsym lying upon the lectern.

But Enid met his attack with the courage that sometimes outlives hope.

"A just man need fear no woman!" she exclaimed. "It is because you are unjust and a coward that you fear—that you suspect—that you find it necessary to hide and spy."

The color surged over his face.

"I have been outraged!" he cried—"I have been outraged!"

"And, like an unreasoning animal, you turn to devour the thing that has hurt you?"

"I demand justice."

She threw out her hands and laughed suddenly and hysterically.

"And you call this justice? You call it justice to trap one man and set a hundred others loose upon him?"

But Bale-Corphew turned upon her.

"And what is this man to you?" he cried. "What spell has he cast upon you that you can forget his outrage and his blasphemy?"

Enid met the question with her new fortitude; searching Bale-Corphew's turbulent face, she answered with a certain high simplicity.

"I do not know," she said. "Once I believed that I admired him—that I looked up to him—because he was a Prophet; something higher and better than myself. Now I know that my belief was wrong and false; that it was because he is a man—because, before everything else in the world, he is a man—that I turned to him, that I relied upon him."

Bale-Corphew gave a short, cruel laugh.

"So that is it? That is the secret? He is a man? Well, I will strip him of his manhood! We have had our disillusioning; yours is to come. Here, on this sacred spot where he has been so exalted, he will bite the dust."

He paused triumphantly; and in the pause there rose again to Enid's mind the picture of one tall, white-robed figure confronting a sea of faces—all incensed—all passionately, vindictively unanimous in desire.

"Oh no!" she said, suddenly, faltering before the picture. "No! No! You cannot. You must not. Be merciful! Let him go. And if there is anything—any recompense—" But even as it was spoken, the appeal died. Somewhere in the heart of the House a solemn clock chimed the hour of eight; and as though the sound were a signal, the curtain of the chapel door was drawn softly back, and a stream of dark-robed figures poured over the empty floor.

For a moment she stood immovable before the imminence of the crucial scene; then, with a sensation of physical weakness and helplessness, she turned, moved blindly forward, and sank into a vacant seat.

At the same moment Bale-Corphew left her without a word, and passed rapidly down the aisle.

Great fear frequently exercises a paralyzing effect upon the body. With the undeniable knowledge that the time for action—the time for hope—was irrevocably passed, Enid felt deprived of the power to move. She sat crouching in her seat, every sense alive and strained, but with limbs that were overpowered and weighted as if by tangible fetters.

Thrilling to this numb and impotent sense of dread, she heard the devotees enter the chapel, one after another, and pass to their chosen seats with soft, gliding steps. With a sickening knowledge of approaching catastrophe, she saw another of the unconventional black-robed servants emerge from behind the Sanctuary curtain, and proceed with maddening deliberation to light the sixteen groups of wax tapers that were set at intervals along the walls. Mechanically her eyes followed the man's movements; and it seemed that each new taper that spat, flickered, and shot up into a light was a symbol, a portent of the scene to come.

As the last candle was lighted, the shuffling of feet and the stir of garments that, since the entry of the first devotee, had unceasingly filled the chapel suddenly subsided, and nerved to motion by the lull, she turned and glanced behind her.

The scene, familiar though it was, impressed her anew. It was a strange effect in black and white. The black clothes of the congregation seemed massed together in a sombre blur; their strained, fanatical faces looked white and set; while the marble walls shone out, sharp and polished, in the same contrasting hues. Over the whole scene the concentrated light and accentuated shadow thrown by the great sconces glowing with tapers, made a variation of tone almost as vivid as that seen on a moonlight night.

Unconsciously she recognized the curious, the almost barbaric picturesqueness of light and grouping; but her eyes had barely skimmed the scene when the meaning of the hush that filled the place was brought home to her mind.

Glancing towards the curtain that hid the entrance, she saw the figure of the Prophet move slowly into the chapel and pass up the aisle, attended by the Precursor and the Six Arch-Mystics.

He moved forward with grave, dignified steps, and with a head held even higher than usual, and reaching the Sanctuary gate, passed through it without hesitation.

The action was so calm—so natural—so like what she had witnessed night after night—that Enid sat newly petrified, her senses striving to associate this strong figure with the man who, only a few hours before, had humiliated himself in her presence. For a moment her mind refused the connection of ideas; but the next a full realization of the position swept over her, galvanizing her mentally and physically, as she turned in her seat and glanced at the seven who were following in the wake.



First behind his master came the Precursor. And to Enid's searching gaze it seemed that his face was set into unfamiliar and anxious lines; but under his black cap and red hair, his skin looked colorless and drawn. But after the first glance, her eyes were not for him; with swift apprehension they passed to the six Arch-Mystics who, walking two and two, formed the procession.

Animated by the speed of actual fear, her gaze passed from the abnormally agitated face of old Arian, the blind Arch-Councillor, to the dark, turbulent face of Bale-Corphew, who brought up the rear. The survey was rapid and comprehensive; and to her uneasy mind the thought came with unerring certainty that, on all the six faces—differing so markedly in physical characteristics—there was a common look of suppressed excitement, of suppressed resolve.

As they passed her seat, Norov turned and shot a glance of cold curiosity in her direction; but otherwise the whole group seemed unaware of her presence. Still inert, she sat, watching every movement in the scene before her as one might watch a drama that would, at a given moment, cease to be entertainment and become real life.

Very quietly the Prophet advanced to the Scitsym and, following the customary routine, opened it and began to read.

The words were a strange jargon of mystical counsel interspersed with the relation of mystical visions and ecstasies. On ordinary lips, the long, disjointed sentences and disconnected phrases would have sounded vague and incomprehensible; but, from the first, it had been one of the Prophet's special gifts that his deep, grave voice could lend weight and meaning to the fantastic utterances. And to-night it seemed that he intended to put forth all his powers; for scarcely had he opened the book and begun to read, than a stir of interest passed over the congregation; and even Enid, enmeshed in her own terrors, bent forward involuntarily.

He spoke very slowly, enunciating every word with studied seriousness; and from time to time he paused and looked across the sea of fixed and almost adoring faces turned in his direction. It was as if, by strength of will, he had determined that no point, no syllable, of this, his last reading, should be lost upon his hearers. More than once, Bale-Corphew moved uneasily and shot a glance at Norov; but the Prophet was unconscious of these surreptitious signs.

For half an hour he read on, slowly, distinctly, impressively; then, still following the routine of the evening service, he closed the book and calmly moved across the Sanctuary to the Throne. As he neared it, the Precursor stepped forward deferentially and conducted him to the foot of the gilt steps.

Having ascended, he took his seat with calm impassivity and, resting his hands upon the arms of the great gold chair, looked out once more upon the massed faces. This, according to custom, was the signal for a general movement. The congregation swayed forward, prostrating themselves upon the ground, while the Arch-Mystics gathered their wide, black robes about them and assumed attitudes of rapt contemplation.

In obedience to usage, Enid also dropped upon her knees and covered her face with her hands. But though her pose was conventional, there was little place in her thoughts for either prayer or meditation. One idea—and one only—absorbed her being. How, and at what moment, must she gather strength to act? She crouched upon the ground, her hands pressed tightly over her eyes. It seemed to her that all the torture, all the suspense and apprehension of the universe, were gathered into that half-hour of appalling silence. Once she ventured to unlace her fingers and glance through them fearfully; but at sight of the Prophet, calm, impassive, unconscious of his threatened danger—at sight of the six sombre shrouded figures that sat inside the Sanctuary railing, her blood turned cold and her courage quailed.

When the sign that ended the evening's meditation was given, she rose with the rest and sank weakly into her seat. Then, in dumb, stricken helplessness such as envelops us in a terrible dream, she saw the Prophet rise very slowly and stand on the steps of the Throne, looking solemnly down upon the people.

During his change of position, she sat vacillating pitiably. The knowledge that in a single moment he would have begun to speak spurred her to a fever of alarm, while a terrible nervous incapacity chained her limbs and paralyzed her tongue.

Bale-Corphew's words rose to her mind. "He will fool us—as he has fooled us before." In the apprehension aroused by the memory, she half rose in her chair, her hands grasping the back of the seat in front of her; but suddenly the chapel, the lights, the congregation seemed to fade from her vision, and she sank back into her place. The Prophet had begun to speak.

"My People," he said, very calmly and distinctly, "heretofore I have spoken to you as a teacher. To-night I will speak to you as one of yourselves."

Something in the tone—something in the words—struck a note of surprise and uneasiness. Again Bale-Corphew shot a swift glance at Norov, and old Michael Arian lifted his head and strained his sightless eyes towards the Throne, while Enid's hands tightened spasmodically on the back of the chair in front of her, and her lips parted in new fear. What was he going to say? How much further was he going to compromise himself? But the body of the congregation swayed forward in absorbed attention, and the Prophet continued to survey the fixed faces with grave, steady eyes.

"My People," he said, "you are an unusual gathering. Some would call you a gathering of fanatics—some might even call you a gathering of fools. But fools, fanatics, or Mystics, you are all men and women. You are all human beings!"

Old Arian started, and Norov's cold, blue eyes flashed; but still the Prophet was oblivious of their emotion.

"It is always well to study one's own kind; and to-night I am going to speak to you of a man. I am going to tell you the story of a man—a man as passionate, as headstrong, as weak and vulnerable as you yourselves." He halted for a moment, and his glance seemed to grow more concentrated, more intense.

"Once, many years ago, there was a boy born here, in this city of London. Don't lose patience! My story has the merit of truth.

"There was nothing pleasant, there was nothing easy, in the circumstances of this boy's birth. His first sight of the world was gained through the window of a tenement-house, and the picture he saw was the picture of an alley—dark, foul, teeming with life. His first knowledge of existence was the realization of poverty—not the free, wholesome poverty of the country, but the grinding, sordid, continuous poverty of the town, that no tongue can adequately describe.

"These were his surroundings—this was his environment; and yet—so great are the miracles that love can accomplish—every day of that boy's life was illumined and glorified by one presence. God in his bounty had given him a mother!"

It was the first time in any discourse that he had mentioned the supreme Name, and as if conscious of the tremor it aroused, he continued his narrative without pause.

"To say that a boy's life is made happier by his mother's existence sounds too trite and obvious to bear any weight; but it is through the obvious facts of life that the world's machinery is kept in motion. The inexpressible, unwearying tenderness of this mother for her son, the love of this boy for his mother, grew with the passage of time—grew into something so significant, so vital and so deep, that even the poisonous atmosphere of the alley could not thwart its growth.

"This feeling grew in the boy's heart; and with it—by a necessary law of nature—another feeling took root and grew also. Fired by stories of a past, in which wealth and position had been won by his forefathers, he conceived the idea of becoming in his own person a hero—a knight-errant. And in the grimy, common alley; in the poor, bare sitting-room where his mother sewed unendingly; in the dark closet under the slates where at night he dreamed his child's dreams, he built castles such as never stood upon the hills of Spain!

"The germ of his ambition fell into his soul like a seed of fire; and, like a seed of fire, sprang into a flame. At whatever price—at whatever sacrifice—there must be a golden future, in which the mother he adored would sit in high places; in which the worn hands would never ply a needle except for pastime, the frail figure grow straight and strong, the pale face warm and brighten with the colors of health!

"It was a very humble, a very young ambition, but it sprang from the true, clean source of untainted love, like which there is nothing else in all the world." He paused; and from his grave voice it seemed that a wave of emotion passed across the chapel. The congregation, too fascinated by his words to question their meaning, drew a sigh of rapt anticipation. Enid, amazed, bewildered, moved beyond herself, sat immovable—her face pale, her great eyes fixed upon the Throne. Only the six Arch-Mystics stirred uneasily, glancing at each other with quiet, uncertain looks.

Presently, as though he had marshalled his ideas for the continuation of his speech, the Prophet raised his hand.

"My People," he began, again, "do not think that I am going to compel you to listen to a psychological discourse upon this boy's development. That is not my intention. But were I to hold up a picture for your inspection, you could not properly appreciate it were you ignorant of the art of drawing. And so it is with my story. To understand the completed work, you must understand the manner of its growth.

"Though this boy lived in obscurity, he was bound by one link with the great things of the world. But for the unjust disinheritance of his father, he would have been heir to a vast property; and through all his youth, this had been the golden mirage that had floated before his vision—this had been the fabled country from which his castle rose. Steadily, unfalteringly, one idea had expanded in his mind. By some brave action—by some deed of heroism—he was to win back the lost inheritance.

"Time passed. And with its passage the wheel of fate revolved. By one of those strange chances for which no man can account, the opportunity that the boy longed for fell across his path.

"It came. But it came enveloped in no cloud of glory. The path to the lost inheritance was steep and rugged and dark. He was called upon to leave his mother; to leave the place that, however sordid, however mean, was yet his home; and to enter upon a period of servitude with an unknown master—a man related to him by blood, whom report described as an eccentric—a miser—a madman."

As he said these words a curious thing occurred. A wave of color flushed old Arian's sightless face; an inarticulate sound escaped him, and he made a tremulous attempt to rise. But the movement was instantly checked by Bale-Corphew, who bent close to him and whispered quickly in his ear.

Neither gesture nor whisper was noted by the Prophet. His own face had paled as if with some deep emotion; and lowering his raised hand, he spoke again with a new, suppressed intensity.

"Then began the vital period of that boy's career. He left his home—he left the mother he loved—he went into voluntary exile, animated by one purpose. Remember that, my People! He went into the service of this man animated by one purpose—the determination to win back his rightful fortune! And for seven weary years he continued his pursuit. For the seven most vital years of his youth he suppressed every instinct that animates a boy!

"He worked more laboriously than the laborer in the fields, for mental servitude is more galling to the young than any physical strain. But he never faltered; and at last he had the pride of knowing that his end was gained—he had the pride of knowing that he had become indispensable to the master whom he served!" Again he paused, but this time the pause was of impressive weight. Unconsciously, and without analyzing the feeling, every member of the congregation felt that some announcement was pending—that some extraordinary revelation was about to be made.

Enid sat rigid, holding her breath in an agony of suspense, fascinated and appalled by the incomprehensible discourse. Behind the high railing, old Michael Arian's lips moved rapidly and nervously, as though he were muttering inaudible prayers; while Bale-Corphew's florid face flamed, as, with a rapid, agitated movement, he glanced over the tense faces of the congregation. For one moment it seemed that he was bracing himself for action, but before his intentions could bear fruit, the voice of the Prophet again rang out across the chapel.

"My People!" he said. "It is now that I appeal to your humanity! It is now that I ask each one of you—men and women—to stand in this boy's place—this boy, built like yourselves of human desires, human hopes, human weaknesses. After seven long years he touched the knowledge that he had become indispensable; and the bearer of that knowledge was Death—his master's master!

"Death came; and in his chill presence the boy saw his task completed—laid aside like a written scroll!

"It was the most glorious moment of his life—that moment in which he stood with unshaken faith, looking towards the future. But the darker side of existence was his portion; he had been born to the darker side. Within one hour of his master's death, his dreams were dispelled. He learned that, in the eyes of the man he had served, he had never passed beyond the position of the outcast—the dependent, whose services are liberally rewarded by the gift of a few hundred pounds. The fortune—the inheritance—the golden mirage, was no longer existent, save as something that did not concern him. By the disposition of his master's will, it had passed into the coffers of a religious body—a fantastic, unknown sect to which the old man had belonged!"

The announcement fell with strange effect. Enid, inspired by sudden terror, rose to her feet; Bale-Corphew sat gripping the arm of his chair, his face contorted, his mouth working, while a rustle, an audible murmur of excitement passed over the whole chapel, and the Precursor, who all along had been crouching at the foot of the throne, turned quickly and anxiously towards his master.

But the Prophet reassured him by a gesture. It seemed that he was exalted by some emotion, lifted above his surroundings by some invisible power.

"Put yourselves in this boy's place!" he cried. "Was there ever a position so intensely human? The thing he had striven for—the thing he needed inordinately—had been wrenched from him by a band of people who, in his eyes, were either fools or knaves. What would you have done in his position? What would have been your impulse? What your instinct? If I know anything of human nature, it would have been the same as his—precisely, accurately the same as his!

"He had known for years of this sect to which his master belonged; and for years he had held it in contempt. In his normal, youthful eyes, the idea of a creed that denied the high, simple theory of Christianity, and awaited the coming of a mythical Prophet was a subject for healthy scorn. And now suddenly it was forced upon his understanding that this anaemic sect—this mystical, anticipated Prophet—were his rivals—the despoilers of his private intimate hopes.

"Such a knowledge has power to work a miracle; and in one single night it changed this boy into a man. Embittered, hopeless, stranded, inspiration came to him. He conceived the tremendous idea of entering upon a new fight—a second quest of the great inheritance. He conceived the idea; and standing, as it were, upon a different plane of life, he saw—"

But the Prophet got no further. With a gesture of violent excitement, Bale-Corphew rose; at the same instant the Precursor sprang to his feet and stood in a defensive attitude before the Throne.

The whole scene was enacted in a second. Enid, grasping its full meaning, turned very white and dropped back into her seat, while the whole congregation strained forward in unanimous amazement and curiosity.

And then, for the first time, the hot, angry glance of Bale-Corphew met that of the Prophet. He glared at him for one moment in speechless rage, then he turned to the people.

"Mystics!" he cried, in a choked voice. "In accordance with a solemn duty, I—I proclaim this man to be—"

But before he could proceed the Precursor interrupted.

"People! Mystics!" he cried, raising his penetrating voice. "Is this right? Is this permissible?"

A murmur rose from the chapel.

Bale-Corphew's face became purple.

"People! hear me!" he exclaimed. "This man is no Prophet. He is an impostor! A fraud! I have proof. I can give you proof!"

Of the extraordinary effect of these words Enid—crouching helplessly in her seat—saw nothing. All her senses were riveted upon one object—the tall, calm figure upon the steps of the Throne. By the power of intuition, rather than by physical observation, she saw the look of intense surprise, of incredulity merging to dismay, that crossed the Prophet's face at the Arch-Mystic's words. And at the sight the real meaning of his incomprehensible discourse passed over her mind in a wave of incredulous admiration. Believing himself secure in his position, he had voluntarily chosen to denounce himself.

That was her first thought as the matter became clear to her; but a chilling second thought followed sharp upon it. What would be the Prophet's reading of Bale-Corphew's knowledge? Would not one solution—and one only—present itself to his mind? The idea that she had betrayed his confidence. With the horror of the suggestion an ungovernable impulse filled her—an impulse to rise—to go to him—sweep the doubt from his mind. But an instant later the merely egotistical thought was obliterated by the greater issues that filled the moment.

After Bale-Corphew had spoken an uproar—a clamor—had suddenly filled the chapel; and now the rapt concourse of people had become as a turbulent sea. The Precursor, pale with intense nervous excitement, stood vainly striving to make his voice heard; while Bale-Corphew, closely surrounded by his fellow-Mystics, gesticulated violently.

At last the Prophet raised his hand; and by habit and training, the people subsided into silence.

Instantly Bale-Corphew's voice rang out.

"Listen!" he cried; "listen!"

But again the Precursor interrupted.

"People," he demanded, "will you refuse the Prophet the right of speech? Will you refuse to hear the Prophet's words?"

"This is sacrilege! Sacrilege!" Norov suddenly raised his voice. "Listen to your Councillor!"

"Listen to the Prophet! The Voice of the Prophet calls upon you. Will you deny it?" The Precursor's voice shook with excitement.

"This is the truth! I tell you the truth!" Bale-Corphew appealed to the people with out-stretched arms.

But the tumult broke forth again.

"Mystics! Mystics!" Old Arian's shrill, alarmed tones rose for an instant, only to be drowned in the clamor.

Then out of the confused babel of sound one cry became distinguishable.

"The Prophet! The Prophet! Let the Prophet speak!"

For a space confusion reigned; then, answering to the demand, the Prophet again lifted his right hand.

As though it exercised some potent spell, his calm, imperious gesture subdued the turmoil. When silence had been restored he began to speak; and never, since he had addressed the first Gathering, had so deep a note of domination and decision been audible in his voice.

"Mystics!" he cried, "there is no time for preamble or delay. As the Arch-Mystic says, you must have truth! Perhaps there is no need to tell you that the history I have just related to you has an imminent bearing upon your lives and mine. You probably know, without my telling, that the boy of my story and I are one and the same person; that the fanatic sect, for which I was made a beggar, is your own sect—the sect of the Mystics. But so it is. On a wild, dark night ten years ago I learned that the money which should have been mine—the money which should have been the recompense for my mother's hard life—had been given to you. Given for the use of a Prophet in whose coming you believed!

"My feelings on that night were the criminal feelings that underlie all civilization. I had only one desire—to destroy—to be avenged. My uncle, Andrew Henderson, was an Arch-Mystic of your sect; and on the night he died, your sacred Scitsym was in his house!"

The congregation thrilled, and the blind Arch-Councillor turned and clutched Bale-Corphew's arm.

"My first impulse was to destroy that book. Look at it, look at it!" He pointed to the lectern. "Ten years ago, I knelt before a fire with its pages in my hand, and black thoughts of revenge in my heart. But the devil of temptation lurks in strange places. In the very act of destruction, an inspiration came to me. A man was expected! A Prophet was expected! And in the pages of the Scitsym were contained the attributes, the secret signs, the manifold ways in which he was to make good his claim.

"I come of an obstinate stock—of a stock that in the past has overcome many obstacles. That night I copied out the whole of your Scitsym, and afterwards, as soon as I reasonably could, I left Scotland.

"I went at once to my mother; I told her that, according to the disposition of my uncle's will, I was to inherit his fortune in ten years' time, and that in the interval I was to fit myself for wealth by profound study. It was the first time in all my life that I had lied to her!

"But to come to the end, your Prophet was to be a student of Eastern lore. With this knowledge in my mind, I started with my mother for the East. What has happened since then is immaterial. My second probation has been as hard as my first. But I accomplished two things. I fitted myself mentally and physically for the part I was going to play, and I made one stanch, wholly disinterested friend!" With a gesture of grave affection, he indicated the Precursor.

In the opportunity that the slight pause gave, Bale-Corphew sprang forward and, resting his hands upon the Sanctuary railing, faced the congregation.

"People!" he cried, hoarsely, "be not deceived! This man pretends to tell you what he is. He is blinding you—weaving a bandage of specious words across your eyes. But I will undeceive you. I will tear the bandage—" He hesitated, stammered, paused.

With a movement full of fire, full of authority, the Prophet stepped from the Throne.

"Silence!" he cried. "There is no need for interference. This matter is between the People and myself." With a pale face and burning eyes he stepped forward, and standing beside the Arch-Mystic confronted the congregation.

"I will tell you everything that this man would tell you," he said, in a steady voice. "I believe I will even use the word he himself would choose. I am a thief! I am a thief—in intention if not in act!"

The effect of the word was tremendous. A perfectly audible gasp went up from the breathless crowd; and, by one accord, the people rose and swayed upward towards the Sanctuary.

Calm and immovable as a rock, the Prophet held his place.

"Yes," he said, steadily, "until this morning I have virtually been a thief. Until this morning it was my firm intention to take by force that which should have come to me as my right. The fact that my intention faltered at the last moment does not affect the case. I wish to make no appeal. My desire"—his voice suddenly quickened—"my desire is plainly and simply to state my case.

"Morally I have done you no wrong. My teaching has been the expounding of simple truths, that my personal action could not desecrate. I stand before you to-night empty-handed as I came. The one thing I claim from you is judgment!

"Judge me! I am in your hands. If you think I deserve punishment, punish me! If you think circumstances have made me what I am, then stand aside! Let me pass out of your lives!"

There was a great silence; then a woman's sharp cry rang out across the chapel, as, with a savage movement, three of the Arch-Mystics sprang upon the Prophet.

"Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" Bale-Corphew's voice rose loud and violent.

But he had calculated without his host. The fanaticism of a crowd is a dangerous weapon with which to tamper, and the dethronement of a king is not accomplished in a day. With the speed of light, the element he had unloosed turned upon himself.

Again one word disentangled itself from the medley of sounds.

"The Prophet! The Prophet!" Like an ignited fuse, instinct had been lighted in the people. The man who for months had been exalted—honored—well-nigh worshipped—was in imminent peril! That one thought submerged and demolished every other.

There was a forward movement—a roar—a crash—and the high, gilt railings of the Sanctuary went down as before a storm.

To Enid, who had been borne irresistibly upward on the human tide, there was one overpowering moment of fear and clamor, in which the cry of "The Prophet! The Prophet!" dominated her consciousness; then, to her, the world became suddenly and mercifully sightless, soundless, and void.

* * * * *

When at last her eyes opened—when at last her senses falteringly returned to the consciousness of present things—she was in her own familiar room. The atmosphere breathed of repose and peace; through the drawn curtains the hum of London came subdued and soothing; in the room itself the lights were modulated and the fire glowed soft and mellow, while a faint, pungent smell of restoratives filled the air. But these details came but vaguely to her appreciation, for the first object upon which her glance and her ideas rested was the figure of John Henderson, kneeling beside the couch on which she lay.

For a long, silent space she gazed bewildered into the grave face bent over her own—striving to fathom whether this was another phase of an extraordinarily prolonged and harassing dream, or whether it had any bearing upon real life; then, as the pained, bewildered sensation deepened in her mind, it was suddenly illumined by a flash of recollection; and starting up, she caught Henderson's hand.

But before she could speak he laid his fingers gently over her eyes.

"You are not to think," he said. "To-night is past."

"But Hellier Crescent? What happened after—after—?"

Again he made a soothing movement.

"You must not think of it. They gathered round me. They were generous. They heaped coals of fire."

Enid lay silent, conscious with a keen yet poignant pleasure of his hand upon her face. Then suddenly a new thought obtruded itself, and drawing away his fingers, she looked up into his face.

"And after to-night—?" she said, in a low, unsteady voice.

For a moment he did not answer, and in the soft light it seemed to her that a shadow of pain passed over his face.

Again she put out her hand and touched his.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, below her breath.

At last he raised his head and looked fully at her.

"I am going back to the East. The hardest task of my life is awaiting me there. It is a very bitter thing to disillusionize the person to whom one is a hero."

She looked at him quickly.

"You are speaking of your mother? You are thinking of your mother?"

He bent his head.

For a space neither spoke. Vaguely, and in distant accompaniment to their thoughts, each was conscious of the hum of traffic and of the softly crackling fire; then at last Enid stirred, and with a gesture full of comprehension, her fingers closed round Henderson's.

"Let me tell her the story!" she said, almost inaudibly. "Take me with you—and let me tell her! We are both women, and—" Her head drooped slightly; and her face flushed. "And we both love you."

THE END