I n the first moment of astonishment, John stood motionless, his gaze riveted on the glow of color that poured through the window upon the rocks and heather of the cleft. Then, as he continued to stand with widely opened eyes, another surprise was sprung upon him. The door of the chapel opened and the figure of his uncle—long since supposed to be sleeping tranquilly in his own room—showed tall and angular in the aperture.

From John's position, the open door and the lighted interior of the little edifice were distinctly visible; and in one glance he saw his uncle's silhouetted figure and behind it a bare space some dozen feet square, lined on floor and walls with sections of marble alternately black and white. From the ceiling of this chamber depended an octagonal symbol in polished metal, and close by the door eight wax candles flickered slightly in the faint stir of air. But his astonished and inquisitive eyes had barely become aware of these details when Andrew Henderson turned towards the circular sconce in which the candles were set and began to extinguish them one by one. As the light died, he stepped forward and John drew back sharply; but at his movement a stone, loosened by his heel, went rolling down into the hollow. And a moment later his uncle, glancing up, saw his figure outlined against the luminous sky.

What the outcome of the incident would have been on any other occasion, it is difficult to say. As it was, the moment was propitious. Old Henderson, surprised in an instant of exaltation, was pleased to put his own narrow, superstitious construction on the boy's appearance. Laboring under an abnormal excitement, he showed no resentment at the fact of being spied upon; but calling John to him, ordered him to walk home beside him across the cliff.

Never was walk so strange—never were companions so ill-matched as the two who threaded their way back over the headland. Andrew Henderson walked first, talking all the time in a jargon addressed partly to the boy, partly to himself, in which mysticism was oddly tangled with a confusion of crazy theories and beliefs; behind came John, half fascinated and wholly bewildered by the medley of words that poured out upon the night.

On reaching the house, the old man became suddenly silent again, falling back as if by habit into the morose absorption that marked his daily life; but as he turned to mount the stairs to his own room, he paused and his curious light-blue eyes travelled over his nephew's face.

"Good-night!" he said. "You make a good listener."

And John—still confused and silent—retired to bed, to lie awake for many hours, partly thrilled and partly elated by the awesome thought that there was a madman in the house.

But all that had happened seven years ago, and now Andrew Henderson lay waiting for his end. In those seven years John had passed through the mill of deadly monotony that saps even youth, and lulls every instinct save hope. The first enthusiasm of romance that had wrapped the discovery of his uncle's secret had faded out with time. By slow degrees he had learned—partly from his own observation, partly from the old man's occasional fanatic outbursts—that the strange chapel with its metal symbol and marble floor was not the outcome of a private whim, but the manifestation of a creed that boasted a small but ardent band of followers. He had learned that—to themselves, if not to the world—these devotees were known as the Mystics; that their articles of faith were preserved in a secret book designated the Scitsym, which passed in rotation each year from one to another of the six Arch-Mystics, remaining in the care of each for two months out of the twelve. He had discovered that London was the Centre of this sect; and that its fundamental belief was the anticipation of a mysterious prophet—human, and yet divinely inspired—by whose coming the light was to extend from the small and previously unknown band across the whole benighted world.

He had learned all these things. He had been stirred to a passing awe by the discovery that his uncle was, in his own person, actually one of the profound Six who formed the Council of the sect and to whom alone the secrets of its creed were known; and for three successive years his interest and curiosity had been kindled when Andrew Henderson travelled to England and returned with the Arch-Councillor—an old blind man of seventy—who invariably spent one day and night mysteriously closeted with his host and then left, having deposited the sacred Scitsym with his own hands in the tall iron safe that stood in Henderson's study. But that annual excitement had lessened with time. Even a madman may become monotonous when we live with him, day in, day out, for seven long years; and gradually the attitude of John's mind had changed with the passage of time. The sense of adventure and triumphant enterprise had steadily receded; the knowledge that he was working out a slow, distasteful probation had advanced. Reluctantly and yet definitely he had realized that his position was not to come and conquer, but to watch and wait; and this consciousness of a tacitly expected end had grown with the years—with the growth of his mind and body. It was not that he was hard-natured. The regularity with which he despatched his yearly money to his mother—reserving the merest fraction for himself—precluded that idea. But he was young and human, and he was youthfully and humanly greedy to possess the good things of life for himself and for the one being he passionately loved. It would, indeed, have been an enthusiast in virtue who could have blamed him for counting upon dead men's shoes.

And now the shoes were all but empty! He stood watching his uncle die!

Having stayed almost motionless for several minutes, he glanced at the clock; then moved to the bed, taking a bottle and a medicine spoon from the dressing-table as he passed.

"Time for your medicine, uncle!" he said, in his quiet, level voice.

But the sick man did not seem to hear.

In a slightly louder tone John repeated his remark. This time the vacant expression faded slowly from the large, pale eyes, and Andrew Henderson moved his head weakly.

Seeing the indication of consciousness, John carefully measured out a dose of medicine, and, stooping over the pillows, passed one arm under his uncle's neck.

Andrew Henderson submitted without objection, but as his head was raised and the medicine held to his lips, he seemed suddenly to realize the position, to comprehend that it was his nephew who leaned over him. With a spasmodic movement he turned towards John, his lips twitching with some inward and newly aroused excitement.

"The Book, John!" he said, sharply—"the Book!"

John remained quite composed. With a steady hand he balanced the spoon of medicine that he still held.

"Your medicine first, uncle," he said, quietly. "We'll talk about the Book after."

But the old man's calm had been disturbed. With unexpected strength he raised one thin hand and pushed the spoon aside, spilling the contents on the bed.

"How can I leave it?" he exclaimed. "How can I go and leave the Book unguarded?" Again his lips twitched and a feverish brightness flickered in his eyes as they searched his nephew's face.

"When I go, John," he added, excitedly, "the Book may be in your keeping for hours—perhaps for a whole night. I know the Arch-Councillor will answer my summons immediately; but it is possible he may be delayed. It may be the ordination of the Unknown that I should Pass before he arrives. If this is so, I want you to guard the Book—but also I want you to guard my dead body. Let no one touch it until he comes. The key of the safe is here—" He fumbled weakly for the thin chain that hung about his neck. "No one must remove it—no one must touch it until he comes—" His voice faltered.

With a calm gesture John forced him back upon the pillows, and quietly wiped up the medicine.

But with a fresh effort the old man lifted himself again.

"John," he cried, suddenly, "do you understand what I am saying? Do you understand that for a whole night you may be alone with the inviolable Scitsym? 'The Hope of the Universe, by whose Light alone the One and Only Prophet shall be made known unto the Watchers!'" He murmured the quotation in a low, rapt voice.

Again the younger man attempted to soothe him.

"Don't distress yourself!" he said, gravely. "I am here. You can trust me. Lie back and rest."

But his uncle's face was still excitedly perturbed; his pale eyes still possessed an unnatural brightness.

"Oh yes!" he said, sharply, "I trust you! I have trusted you. I have left a letter by which you will see that I have trusted you—and that your fidelity has been rewarded. But this is another matter. Can I trust you in this? Can I trust you as myself?" As he put the question a sweat of weakness and excitement broke out over his forehead.

But it was neither his wild appearance nor his question that suddenly sent the blood into John's face and suddenly set his heart bounding. It was the abrupt and unlooked-for justification of his own secret, treasured hope; the tacit acknowledgment of kinship and obligation made now by Andrew Henderson after seven unfruitful years. A mist rose before his sight and his mind swam. What was the mad creed of a dying man—of a dozen dying men—when the reward of his own long probation awaited him?

But the old man was set to his purpose. With shaking fingers he fumbled with two small objects that depended from the chain about his neck. And as he held them up, John saw by the glow of the lamp that one was a copy in miniature of the metal symbol that decorated the little chapel, the other a long, thin key.

As Henderson disentangled and raised these objects to the light, his eyes turned again upon his nephew.

"John," he said, tremulously, "I want you to swear to me by the Sign that you will not touch my body—nor anything on my body—till the Arch-Councillor comes! Swear, as you hope for your own happiness!" A wild illumination spread over his face; the unpleasant fanatical light showed again in his eyes.

For a moment John looked at him; then stirred by his own emotions, by the new pang of self-reproach and gratitude towards this half-crazy man so near his end, he went forward and touched the small octagonal symbol that gleamed in the light.

"I swear—by the Sign!" he said, in a low, level voice. And almost as the words escaped him, the chain slipped from old Henderson's fingers, his jaw dropped, and his head fell forward on his chest.

The moments that follow an important event are seldom of a nature to be accurately analyzed. For a long while John remained motionless and speechless, unable to realize that the huddled figure still warm in his arms was in reality the vessel of clay from which a spirit had escaped. Then suddenly the realization of the position came to him; with a sharp movement he stood upright, and seizing the bell-rope, pulled it vigorously.

When the old woman who attended to the household appeared, he pointed to her master's body and explained in a few words how the end had come; and how in a last urgent command Henderson had forbidden his body to be touched until the arrival of a member of his religious sect. The old woman accepted the explanation with the apathy common to those who have outlived emotion; and with a series of nods and unintelligible mutterings methodically proceeded to straighten the already neatly arranged furniture of the room, in the instinctive belief that order is the first tribute to be paid to Death.

With something of the same feeling John drew the coverlet over the dead body, then turned to watch the old woman at her work. But as he looked at her a desire to be alone again swept over him, and with the desire a corresponding impatience of her slow and measured movements. Chide himself as he might for his impatience, curb his natural instinct as he might, it was humanly impossible that his strong and eager spirit could give thought to Death—while Life was claiming him with out-stretched hands.

He held himself rigidly in check until the last chair had been arranged and the last cinder swept from the hearth; then as the old woman slowly crossed the room and stepped out into the corridor, he sprang with irrepressible impetuosity and shut and locked the door.

He had no superstitious consciousness of the dead body so close at hand. The dead body—and with it the dead years and the long probation—belonged to the past; he with his youth, his strength, his hope, was bound for the limitless future.

Without a moment's hesitation he crossed to his uncle's bureau, which stood as he had left it three days before when his last illness had seized upon him. The papers were all in order; the ink was as yet scarcely rusted on the pens; the key protruded from the lock of the private drawer. With a tremor of excitement John extended his hand, turned it and opened the drawer; then he caught his breath. There lay a square white envelope addressed to himself in his uncle's fantastic, crooked handwriting.

As he drew it out and held it for a moment in his hand, his thoughts centred unerringly round one object. In a moment, the seven years of waiting—the strange death scene just enacted—even Andrew Henderson and his mystical creed—were blotted from his mind by a wonderful rose-colored mist of hope, from which one face looked out—the patient, tender, pathetic face of the mother he adored. The emotions, so long suppressed, welled up as they had been wont to do years ago in the sordid London home.

With a throb of confidence and anticipation he inserted his finger under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. With lightning speed his eyes skimmed the oddly written lines. Then a short, inarticulate sound escaped him, and the blood suddenly receded from his face.

For a space John stood pale and rigid, making no attempt to reread the letter; then all at once one of those rare and curious upheavals of feeling that shake men to their souls seized upon him. The blood rushed back into his face in a dark wave; the rose-colored mist that had floated before his vision flamed suddenly to red; the same implacable rage that, years ago, had impelled his grandfather to disinherit his favorite son swelled in his heart. All ideas, all considerations, save one, became blurred and indistinct; but this one idea rode him, spurred him to a frenzy of desire. It was the blind, instinctive, human wish to wreak his loss and disappointment upon some tangible, visible object.

With a dazed movement he turned to the bed; but only the huddled, impassive figure beneath the coverlet met his gaze. For more than a minute he stared at it helplessly; then a new thought shot across his mind and his lips drew together in a thin, hard line. The road to revenge lay open before him! With an abrupt gesture he stepped forward and pulled back the counterpane.

In the yellow lamp-light the thin face of the dead man had an ashen hue; the half-opened eyes and the prominent teeth, from which the lips had partly receded, confronted him grewsomely. But the force of his disappointment and rage was something before which mere human horror was swept aside. With another rapid movement, he stooped over the bed and unclasped the thin gold chain that hung round the dead man's neck, letting the metal symbol and the long, thin key slip from it into his hand. Turning to the dressing-table, he caught up a lamp; hurried from the room; and, descending the stairs, passed into the study.

To his excited glance the place looked strangely undisturbed. Though the frames of the windows rattled in the gale, the interior arrangements were as precise and bare as usual; the fireless grate stared at him coldly, and against the whitewashed wall the heavy iron safe stood out like an accentuated blot of shadow. Impelled by his one dominating idea, he crossed without an instant's hesitation to the door of this hitherto inviolable repository of his uncle's secrets, and, inserting the key he carried, threw back the massive door.

One glance showed him the thing he sought. Lying in solitary state upon the highest shelf was a heavy book bound in white leather. The edges of the cover were worn yellow with time and use, and from the centre of the binding gleamed the familiar octagonal symbol exquisitely wrought in gold and jewels. With hands that trembled slightly he lifted the book from its place, closed and locked the door of the safe, and, extinguishing the lamp, left the room.

In the flood of unreasoning rage and thwarted hope that surged about him, he had no definite plan regarding the object in his hand. He only knew, by the medium of instinct, that through it he could strike a blow at the uncle who had excluded him from his just inheritance—at the crazy scheme by which he had been defrauded of his due.

With hasty steps he mounted the stairs and re-entered the bedroom. To his agitated mind it seemed but just that, whatever his vengeance, it should be accomplished in the grim, unconscious presence of the dead man.

Stepping into the room, he paused and looked about him, seeking some suggestion. As he stood there, his eyes, by a natural process of inspiration, fell upon the fire that glowed and crackled in the grate; and with a sharp, inarticulate sound of satisfaction he strode forward to the hearth, knelt down, and prepared for his work of destruction.

As he crouched over the flames a fresh gale swept inland from the sea, seizing the house in its fierce embrace; and the red tongues of fire leaped up the chimney in the instant answer of element to element.

Instinctively he bent forward, opened the book and gathered the first sheaf of leaves into his fingers. Then, involuntarily, he paused, as the bold characters of the printed words shot up black and clear in the fierce glow.

Almost without volition he read the opening lines:

"Out of obscurity will He come. And—having proved Himself—no man will question Him. For the Past lies in the Great Unknown. By the Scitsym—from which none but the Chosen may read—will ye know Him; and, knowing Him, ye will bow down—Mystics, Arch-Mystics, and Arch-Councillor alike. And the World will be His. For He will be Power made absolute!"