It was a critical moment for Chick. Out of the impulse of his inner nature he had chosen the odds that he must now uphold against the combined wisdom of these intellectuals. He was alone, with no one to guide him save Geos, who undoubtedly was his friend, but who as undoubtedly would desert him upon the slightest inkling of imposture.

He found himself in a great, round room, or rather an oval one, domed at the top but tinted in a far more beautiful colouring—lazuli blue. The walls were cut by long, narrow windows reaching far up into the sweep where the side melted into the ceiling. The material of the windows was of the same translucent substance already noted, but slightly tinged with green, so that they shed a soft light, cooled and quiet, over the whole assembly.

On the wall opposite the doorway was a large replica of the clover-leaf design outside, even more gem-like in brilliance; its three colours woven into a trinity almost of flame. Whether the light was artificial or intrinsic, Chick could not say. The floor of the place accommodated some three hundred tables, of the library type, and the same number of men bearing the distinguished stamp of the Rhamda. All were smooth-shaven, comparatively tall, and possessing the same aesthetic manner which impressed one with the notion of inherited, inherent culture. The entire hall had the atmosphere of learning, justice and the supreme tribunal.

For a moment Watson felt weak and uncertain. He could hold up against Geos and Avec, but in the face of such an array he wasn't so sure. There was but one thing to encourage him; the faces into which he looked. All were full of wonder and reverence.

Then he looked about him more carefully. He had come out upon a wide platform, or rostrum. He now noticed that he was flanked on either side by thrones—two of them; they seemed made of golden amber. The one on the right was occupied by a man, the other by a woman. In the pause that was vouchsafed him Chick took note of these two, and wondered.

In the first place, the man was not a Rhamda. The jewelled semi-armour that he wore was more significant than the dignified garb of the Intellectuals; at the same time, his accoutrements cheapened him, by contrast. He was executive, princely, with the bearing that comes of worldly ambitions and attainments; a man strangely handsome, vital, athletic; curling hair, dark, quick eyes and even features; except only for the mouth he might have been taken as a model of the Greek Alexander.

The clothes he wore were classic, as was everything else about him, even to his sandals, his bare arms and his jewelled breastplate.

Watson had studied history. He had a quick impression of a composite—of genius, cruelty and sensuality. Here was one with three strong natures, a sort of Nero, Caligula and Alexander combined: the sensuality of the first, the cruelty of the second, and the instinctive fire and greatness of the immortal Macedonian. The man was smiling; not an amused smile, but one of interest, humorous tolerance.

When their eyes met, Chick caught the magnetic current of personality, the same sense of illusiveness that he and Harry Wendel had noted in the Nervina; only here it was negative, resisting instead of aiding. A number of the blue guard surrounded the throne, their faces dark, strong, and of unconquerable resolution, though slow to think.

On the other throne was a girl. Chick had heard enough from the Geos to guess her identity: one of the queens, the Aradna; frail, delicate, a blue-eyed maiden, with a waving mass of straw-gold hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. She too was classically attired, although there were touches of modernity here and there in the arrangement of ribbons; the garment matched her guards' crimson, and was draped about her shoulders so as to leave one bare, together with that arm. Across her forehead was a band of dark-blue gems, and she wore no other jewels.

She was not more than seventeen or eighteen, with eyes like bluebells, lips as red as poppies, features that danced with delight and laughter and all the innocence that one would associate with elfin royalty. Instinctively Chick compared her with the Nervina.

The senior queen had the subtle magnetism, the uncountable fascination, the poise and decision that held and dictated all things to her fancy.

Not so the Aradna. Hers was the strength of simplicity, the frank, open delight of the maiden, and at the same time all the charm and suggestion of coming womanhood. When she caught Watson's eye she smiled; a smile free and unrestrained, out of an open, happy heart. She made a remark to one of her guards, who nodded a reply after the manner of a friend, rather than a courtier.

Watson turned to the Geos, who stood somewhat to one side, and a little to the rear.

“The Aradna?”

“Yes. The queen of D'Hartia. The man on the other side is the Bar Senestro.”

Whatever feeling Chick entertained for the one was offset by what he felt for the other. He was between two forces; his instinct warned him of the Bar, sceptical, powerful, ruthless, a man to be reckoned with; but his better nature went out to the young queen.

At a motion from Geos, the whole assembly of Rhamdas stood up. The action was both dignified and reverent. Though Chick was, in their eyes, a miracle, there was no unseemly staring nor jarring of curiosity; all was quietness, ease, poise; the only sound was that of the constant subtle music of those invisible bells.

Rhamda Geos began speaking. At the same time he placed a friendly hand on Watson's shoulder, a signal for every other Rhamda to resume his seat.

“The Fact and the Substance, my brothers.”

Geos paused as he made use of the ultra-significant phrase. And then, in a few rapid sentences, he ran over the synopsis of that affair, beginning with some philosophy and other details that Watson could only half understand, making frequent allusions to the Jarados and other writers of prophecy; then he made some mention of his own particular brand of spiritism and its stand on materialisation. This he followed with an account of the finding of Watson in the temple, his long sleep and ultimate reviving. At greater length he repeated the gist of their conversation.

Not until then was there a stir among the Rhamdas. Chick glanced over at the Aradna. She was listening eagerly, her chin cupped in her hand, her blue eyes full of interest and wonder, and natural, unfeigned, child-like delight.

Then the Bar caught Chick's glance; the newcomer felt the cold chill of calculation, the cynical weight of the sceptic, and a queer foreboding of the future; no light glance, but one like fire and ice and iron. He wondered at the man's beauty and genius, and at his emotional preponderance manifest even here before the Rhamdas.

The Geos went on. His words, now, were simple and direct. Watson felt himself almost deified by that reverent manner. The Rhamdas listened with visibly growing interest; the Aradna leaned slightly forward; even the Bar dropped his interest in Watson to pay closer attention to the speaker. For Geos had come to the Jarados; he was an orator as well as a mystic, and he was advancing Chick's words with all the skill of a master of language, ascending effect—climax—the Jarados had come among them, and—They had missed him!

For a moment there was silence, then a rustle of general comment. Chick watched the Rhamdas, leaning over to whisper to each other. Could he stand up against them?

But none of them spoke. After the first murmur of comment they lapsed into silence again. It was the Bar Senestro who broke the tension.

“May I ask, Rhamda Geos, why you make such an assertion? What proof have you, to begin with, that this man,” indicating Watson with a nod, “is not merely one of ourselves: a D'Hartian or a Kospian?”

The Geos replied instantly: “You know the manner of his discovery, Bar Senestro. Have you not eyes?” Geos seemed to think he had said the last word.

“Surely,” rejoined the Bar good-humouredly. “I have very good eyes, Rhamda Geos. Likewise I have a mind to reason with; but my imagination, I fear, is defective. What I behold is just such a creature as myself; not otherwise. How hold you that this one is proof out of the occult?”

“You are sceptical,” returned the Rhamda, evenly. “Even as you behold him, you are full of doubt. But do you not recall the words of the great Avec? Do you not know the Prophecy of the Jarados?”

“Truly, Geos; I remember them both. Especially the writing on the wall of the temple. Does not the prophet himself say: 'And behold, in the last days there shall come among ye—the false ones. Them ye shall slay'?”

“All very true, Bar Senestro. But you well know—we all know—that the true prophecy was to be fulfilled when the Spot was opened. Did not the fulfilment begin when the Avec and the Nervina passed through to the other side?”

“The fulfilment, Geos? Perhaps it was the sign of the coming of impostors! The end may not be until ALL the conditions are complied with!”

But at this moment Aradna saw fit to speak.

“Senestro, would you condemn this one without allowing him a word in his own defence? Is it fair? Besides, he does not look like an impostor to me. I like his face. Perhaps he is one of the chosen!”

At the last word the Bar frowned. His glance shifted suddenly to Watson, a swift look of ice-cold calculation.

“Very, very true, O Aradna. I, too, would have him speak in his own behalf. Let him amuse us with his tongue. What would your majesty care to hear, O Aradna, from this phantom?”

The words were of biting satire. Chick wheeled upon the Bar. Their eyes clashed; an encounter not altogether to Watson's credit. He was a bit unsteady, a trifle uncertain of his power. He had calculated on the superstition of the Rhamdas to hold him up until he caught his footing, and this unexpected scepticism was disconcerting. However, he was no coward; the feeling passed away almost at once. He strode straight up to the throne of the Bar; and once more he spoke from sheer impulse:

“The Aradna has spoken true, O Senestro, or sinister, or whatever you may be called. I demand fair hearing! It is my due; for I have come from another world. I follow—the Jarados!”

If Watson had supposed that he had taken the Bar's measure, he was mistaken. The prince's eyes suddenly glinted with a fierce pleasure. Like a flash his antagonism shifted to something astonishingly like admiration.

“Well spoken! Incidentally, you are well made and sound looking, stranger.”

“Passably,” replied Watson. “I do not care to discuss my appearance, however. I am certainly no more ill-favoured than some others.”

“And impertinent,” continued the other, quite without malice. “Do you know anything about the Bar, to whom you speak so saucily?”

“I know that you have intimated that I may be an impostor. You have done this, after hearing what the learned Rhamda Geos has said. You know the facts; you know that I have come from the Jarados. I—”

But it wasn't Watson's words that held the Bar's attention. Chick's straight, well-knit form, his quick-trained actions, overbalanced the question of the prophet in the mind of the man on the throne. His delight was self-evident.

“Truly you are soundly built, stranger; you are made of iron and whipcord, finely formed, quick and alert.” He threw a word to one of his heavy-faced attendants, then suddenly stood up and descended from his throne. He came up and stood beside Watson.

Chick straightened. The prince was an inch the taller; his bare arms long-muscled, lithe, powerful; under the pink skin Chick could see the delicate, cat-like play of strength and vitality. He sensed the strength of the man, his quick, eager, instinctive glance, his panther-like step and certainty of graceful movement.

“Stranger,” spoke the Bar, “indeed you ARE an athlete! What is your nationality—Kospian?”

“Neither Kospian nor D'Hartian; I am an American. True, there are some who have said that I am built like a man; I pride myself that I can conduct myself like one.”

“And speak impertinently.” Still in the best of humour, the prince coolly reached out and felt Watson's biceps. His eyes became still brighter. If not an admirer of decorum, he could appreciate firm flesh. “Sirra! You ARE strong! Answer me—do you know anything about games of violence?”

“Several. Anything you choose.”

But the prince shook his head. “Not so. I claim no unfair advantage; you are well met, and opportune. Let it be a contest of your own choosing. The greater honour to myself, the victor!”

But the little queen saw fit to interfere.

“Senestro, is this the code of the Bar? Is not your proposal unseemly to so great a guest? Restrain your eagerness for strength and for muscle! You have preferred charges against this man; now you would hurl your body as well. Remember, I am the queen; I can command it of you.”

The Senestro bowed.

“Your wishes are my law, O Aradna.” Then, turning to Watson: “I am over-eager, stranger. You are the best-built man I have seen for many a circle. But I shall best you.” He paced to his throne and resumed his seat. “Let him tell us his tale. I repeat, Geos, that for all his beauty this one is an impostor. When he has spoken I shall confute him. I ask only that in the end he be turned over to me.”

It was plain that the Thomahlia was blest with odd rulers. If the Bar Senestro was a priest, he was clearly still more of a soldier. The fiery challenge of the man struck an answering chord in Watson; he knew the time must come when he should weigh himself up against this Alexander, and it was anything but displeasing to him.

“What must I say and do?” he asked the Rhamda Geos. “What do they want me to tell them?”

“Just what you have told me: tell them of the Nervina, and of the Rhamda Avec. The prince is a man of the world, but from the Rhamdas you will have justice.”

Whereat Chick addressed the Intellectuals. They seemed accustomed to the outbursts of the handsome Bar, and were now waiting complacently. In a few words Watson described the Nervina and Avec; their appearance, manners—everything. Fortunately he did not have to dissemble. When he had finished there was a faint murmur of approval.

“It is proven,” declared the girl queen. “It is truly my cousin, the Nervina. I knew not the Rhamda, but from your faces it must have been he, Senestro, what say you to this?”

But the Bar was totally unconvinced.

“All this is childish. Did I not say he is of our world—D'Hartian or Kospian, or some other? Does not all Thomahlia know of the Nervina? Few have seen the Rhamda Avec, but what of it? Some have. What this stranger says proves nothing at all. I say, give him a test.”

“The test?” from Geos, in a hushed tone.

“Just that. There is none who knows the likeness of the Jarados; none but the absent Avec. None among us has ever seen his image. It is a secret to all save the High Rhamda. Yet, in cases like this, well may the Leaf be opened.”

Watson, wondering what was meant, listened closely to the prince as he continued: “It is written that there are times when all may see. Surely this is such a time.

“Now let this stranger describe the Jarados. He says that he had seen him; that he is the Prophet's prospective son-in-law. Good! Let him describe the Jarados to us!

“Then open the Leaf! If he speaks true, we shall know him to be from the Jarados. If he fail, then I shall claim him for purposes of my own.”

Whatever the motives of the Senestro, he surely had the genius of quick decision. Watson knew that the moment had come to test his luck to the uttermost. There was but one thing to do; he did it. He said to the Rhamda Geos, in a tone of the utmost indifference:

“I am willing.”

Geos was distinctively relieved, “It is good, my lord. Tell us in simple words. Describe the Jarados just as you have seen him, just as you would have us see him. Afterwards we shall open the Leaf.” And in a lower tone: “If you speak accurately I shall be vindicated, my lord. I doubt not that you are a better man than the prince; but place your reliance in the Truth; it will be one more proof of the occult, and of the Day approaching.”

Which is all that Watson told. But first he breathed a prayer to One who is above all things occult or physical. He did not understand where he was nor how he had got there; he only knew that his fate was hanging on a toss of chance.

He faced the Rhamdas without flinching; and half closing his eyes and speaking very clearly, he searched his memory for what he recalled of the old professor. He tried to describe him just as he had appeared that day in the ethics class, when he made the great announcement; the trim, stubby figure of Professor Holcomb, the pink, healthy skin, the wise, grey, kindly eyes, and the close-cropped, pure white beard: all, just as Chick had known him. One chance in millions; he took it.

“That is the Jarados as I have seen him; a short, elderly, wise, BEARDED man.”

There was not a breath or a murmur in comment. All hung upon his words; there was not a sound in the room as he ceased speaking, only the throb of his own heart and the subtle pounding of caution in his veins. He had spoken. If only there might be a resemblance!

The Geos stepped forward a pace. “It is well said. If the truth has been spoken, there shall be room for no dispute. It shall be known throughout all Thomahlia that the Chosen of the Jarados has spoken. Let the Leaf be opened!”

Chick never knew just what happened, much less how it was accomplished. He knew only that a black, opaque wave ran up the long windows, shutting off the light, so that instantly the darkness of night enveloped everything, blotting out all that maze of colour; it was the blackness of the void. Then came a tiny light, a mere dot of flame, over on the opposite wall; a pin-point of light it was, seemingly coming out of a vast distance like an approaching star, growing gradually larger, spreading out into a screen of radiance that presently was flashing with intrinsic life. The corruscation grew brighter; little tufts of brilliance shot out with all the stabbing suddenness of shooting stars. To Chick it was exactly as though some god were pushing his way through and out of fire. In the end the flame burst asunder, diminished into a receding circle and sputtered out.

And in the place of the strange light there appeared the illuminated figure of a man. Leaning forward, Chick rubbed his eyes and looked again.

It was the bust of Professor Holcomb.