S o it came about that the serpent of misgiving entered into the Prophet's paradise. With Enid Witcherley's words, the realization of his true position had been unpleasantly suggested to him, and the grain of doubt had been scattered over the banquet he had set himself to enjoy. It was one thing to fool men who yearned to be fooled—even to fool women whose peculiarities set them apart from their sex; but it was indisputably another matter to dupe a young and confiding girl, who came with all the fascination of modern doubt, counterbalanced by the charm of feminine credulity.

Long after she left him, he had paced up and down the room in perplexity of spirit, until at last, with a sudden contempt for his own weakness, he had turned to where the white binding of the Scitsym caught the subdued light. The sight of the book had nerved him, as it never failed to do; but for all his regained firmness, the sense of uneasy shame had remained with him during the day; and that night, when he addressed his people, he had instinctively guarded his glance from resting on the seats that fronted the Sanctuary.

But now that first interview was past by three weeks, and Enid's daily visits to the great room where he gave audience to the congregation had become one of the recognized events of the twenty-four hours. The sense of shame returned periodically; but on each renewal of the feeling he salved his conscience more and more successfully with the assurance that to her, as to himself, the Mystics were in reality nothing but the products of a neurotic age—mere hysterical dabblers in the truths of the universe. She was too delicately feminine, he told himself with growing conviction, too intelligent and self-controlled, to be more than temporarily attracted to any such exotic creed. She might toy with it for a while, but the day must inevitably dawn when common-sense and the need of surer things would send her back into the broad channel of simple, satisfying Christianity. For a space this unnatural state of things would last; for a space their curious companionship would continue—their long, intimate talks would make life something new and wonderful; then—But there, for some unexplained reason, speculation invariably stopped.

So things stood on the fiftieth morning after her first coming. The stream of suppliants for his favor was all but exhausted, and he awaited to give the last audience of the day.

After the moment of quiet and solitude that always separated the interviews, the sonorous gong announced the last visitor; the silent, ascetic attendant threw open the door and Enid entered.

This time she displayed none of the hesitancy that had marked her early manner. She came towards the table with quick, assured steps, her face bright with anticipation.

As she approached, the Prophet rose. It was remarkable that he no longer retained his sitting position when she entered the room, as was his custom with the other members of the sect. Involuntarily and almost unconsciously he extended to her the ordinary courtesies that man instinctively offers to woman.

As she reached the table, she glanced up at him, and something of the pleasure died out of her face.

"You look tired," she said, softly.

He smiled.

"Does that disappoint you?"

His tone confused her.

"Oh no! No!" Then she colored slightly and glanced at him again. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it is the way of humanity to refuse any common weakness to its leaders—spiritual or temporal."

Again a wave of color crossed her skin. "But surely—"

"Surely what?"

She glanced away; then, seeming to gather up her courage, she looked back at him.

"I mean," she said, slowly, "that some people are so strong that they may be allowed to have anything—"

"Even weaknesses—" Once more he smiled. It was significant how, gradually and indisputably, the tone of teacher had dropped out of his conversation. Neither could have told the date on which the change had occurred—perhaps neither was conscious that it had even taken place. But the fact remained that, with her, he no longer felt compelled to hold aloof; that, with her, he had discarded the allegorical manner of speech, and had begun to show himself as he naturally was.

"Even weaknesses?" he said again, as she made no attempt to answer.

At the words her eyes once more met his.

"Yes," she said, with new resolution—"yes, even weaknesses. I often think that it is because you are so—so human that you hold us as you do. It seems right that a Prophet should belong to the people he has come to teach. All the prophets of the world have essentially belonged to their own times. If you had sat upon the Throne all day and communed with your Soul, I should have been very much afraid of you; but I should never have believed in you as I do now, when you talk to me and advise me and help me like—like a friend." Her voice trembled slightly.

A peculiar expression crossed the Prophet's face.

"So I seem a—friend?"

"More than a friend. I can never tell you what you have been to me—what you have done for me. I have never been so happy—so satisfied in my life, as in these last three weeks. Every disappointment and dissatisfaction seems to have slipped away; I seem to have been living in some calm, beautiful, restful atmosphere—" She paused, her face as well as her voice tinged with a subtle excitement.

"It may be very selfish, but I wish that these days could go on forever. I know that, for you, they are only a probation; that you must crave for the moment when, having taught us everything, you will go out into the world and teach the Unbelievers. I know all that, and I know it is only right, but—but I hate to think of it!" A sudden break came in her voice.

"You hate to think that all this must end?"

Again their eyes met; but, as though the contact of glances embarrassed her, Enid looked away.

"Yes, I do hate it. Do you despise me for being so selfish—so jealous of those other people who will take our place?"

For a moment the Prophet made no reply. In the dim light of the room, the muscles of his hard face looked set; his strong hands were clasped.

"Do you despise me?" she asked again.

"It is not for me to judge any one—you least of all," he answered, without looking at her.

At the subdued tone, the unexpected words, she turned to him apprehensively.

"You are angry with me?"

"Indeed, no."

"Then what is it? What have I done—or said?"

He remained silent.

In her sudden distress she leaned forward in her chair, looking into his face with new solicitude.

"I know—I feel that I have displeased you. Won't you tell me what I have done?"

As she put the question, she laid one gloved hand upon the table; and though the Prophet's eyes were fixed upon the Scitsym, he was conscious in every fibre of the appeal the unstudied gesture made—as he was poignantly conscious of the clear eyes, the soft dark hair, the questioning upturned face.

For an interminable time the silence remained unbroken; at last, with a little sound of fresh distress, Enid bent still nearer.

"Oh, I understand!" she exclaimed. "I understand! You think I have taken advantage of your goodness. You think I have imagined that, because you are kind and patient and tolerant, I might look upon you as—as a man." As she said the word she paused, frightened by her own timidity.

But as suddenly the Prophet wheeled round and laid his fingers over hers. The pressure of his hand was like steel, the expression of his face was altered and disturbed.

"If you only knew—" he said, sharply—"if you only knew how I have longed to hear you say just that one word man!" He paused almost triumphantly, his eyes searching her frightened face, his fingers gripping hers.

For an instant she sat petrified and fascinated; then a faint sound of alarm escaped her, and she turned towards the door.

Without the formality of the announcing gong, two men had entered the room, and stood silent spectators of the tableau. One was Devereaux, the Precursor; the other was Horatio Bale-Corphew.

For one embarrassed moment all four looked at each other; then the Precursor hastened to save the situation. He made a long, profound obeisance, and stepped deferentially to the table.

"Your pardon, Master!" he murmured. "We knew not that the immutable Soul was speaking from within you, calling one among us towards the Light!" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where the massive form and agitated face of Bale-Corphew was framed in the doorway.

At his peremptory look the Arch-Mystic seemed to gather himself together. Stepping forward, he made a slightly tardy reverence.

"Master," he said, huskily, "what the Precursor tells you is the truth. Seeing the threshold unguarded, we concluded that the audiences for the day were over." His prominent brown eyes were filled with conflicting expressions as he turned them on the Prophet.

But the Prophet remained unmoved. The hard look had returned to his face, the stern rigidity to his figure. Very slowly he released the hand that still trembled under his own.

"The time of the Prophet belongs to his People," he said, with dignity. "He holds audience whenever, wherever, and however it is expedient. Speak, my son! In what can I serve you?"

Bale-Corphew looked at him in silence. Whatever he had come to say appeared to have escaped his mind. For a while inaction reigned in the room; then, with a pale face and nervous manner, Enid rose, bowed to the Prophet, and moved noiselessly to the door.

All three watched her until she had disappeared; then Bale-Corphew found voice again.

"Master," he murmured, hurriedly, "with your permission, I also would leave the Presence;" and with a perturbed gesture, he too bowed and passed out of the room.