“Enough, my lord! You are a man indeed. Do not overdo; save yourself for the Senestro.”
Clothes were brought, and Chick taken back to his apartment. The time passed with Rhamdas constantly at his side.
The Geos was not present, nor the little queen. Chick sought permission to sit by the window—permission that was granted after the guards had placed screens that would withhold any view from outside, yet permit Chick to look out.
As far as he could see, the avenues were packed with people. Only, this time the centres of the streets were clear; on the curbs he could see the opposing lines of the blue and crimson, holding back the waiting thousands. In the distance he could hear chimes, faint but distinct, like silver bells tinkling over water.
At intervals rose strange choruses of weird, holy music. The full sweep of the city's domes and minarets was spread out before him. From eaves to basements the rolling luxuriance of orchidian beauty; banners, music, parade; a day of pageant, pomp, and fulfilment.
He could catch the excitement in the air, the strange, laden undercurrent of spiritual salvation-something esoteric, undefinable, the ecstasy of a million souls pulsing to the throb of a supreme moment. He drew back, someone had touched him.
“What is it?”
It was one of the Rhamdas. He had in his hand a small metal clover, of the design of the Jarados.
“What do I do?” asked Watson.
“This,” said the Rhamda, “was sent to you by one of the Bars.”