This act, against the rule and habit during the rites, displayed the venerable countenance and snowy beard of an old man of eighty.
"And on your left," continued the stranger, "sits the representative of Great Britain, the chief of the Scottish Rites. I salute your lordship. If the blood of your forefathers runs in your veins, England may hope not to have the Light die out."
The swords dropped, for anger was yielding to surprise.
"So this is you, captain?" went on the stranger to the last leader on the president's left; "in what port have you left your handsome cruiser, which you love like a lass. The Providence is a gallant frigate, and the name brings good luck to America."
"Now for your turn, Prophet of Zurich," he said to the man on the right of the chief. "Look me in the face, since you have carried the science of Physiognomy to divination, and tell me if you do not read my mission in the lines of my face?"
The person addressed recoiled a step.
"As for you, descendant of Pelagius, for a second time the Moors must be driven out of Spain. It would be an easy matter if the Castilians have not lost the sword of the Cid."
Mute and motionless dwelt the fifth chief: the voice seemed to have turned him to stone.
"Have you nothing to say to me?" inquired the sixth delegate, anticipating the denouncer who seemed to forget him.