“Even so. It is the strangest thing in all the Thomahlia, my lord. Can you feel it?”
For Watson had reached out with his toe and touched the white surface. He drew it back suddenly.
“It has a feeling,” he replied, “that I cannot describe. It is cold, and yet it is not. Perhaps it is my own magnetism.”
“Ah! It is well, my lord!”
What the Rhamda meant by that Chick could not tell. He was interested in the odd white substance. It was as smooth as glass, although at intervals there were faint, almost imperceptible, dark lines, like the finest scratches in old ivory. Yet the whiteness was not dazzling. Again Watson touched it with his foot, and noted the inexplicable feeling of exhilaration. In the moment of absorption he quite forgot the concourse about him. He knew that he was now standing on the crux of the Blind Spot.
But in a minute he turned. The dais was a sort of nave, with one end open to the stairway. Seated on his left was the frail Aradna, occupying a small throne-like chair of some translucent green material. On the right sat the Bar Senestro, in a chair differing only in that its colour was a bright blue. In the centre of the dais stood a third chair—a crimson one—empty.
The Senestro stood up. He was royally clad, his breast gleaming with jewels. He was certainly handsome; he had the carriage of confident royalty. There was no fear in this man, no uncertainty, no weakness. If confidence were a thing of strength, the Senestro was already the victor. In his heart Chick secretly admired him.
But just then the Aradna stood up, She made an indication to Watson. He stepped over to the queen. She sat down again.
“I want to give you my benediction, stranger lord. Are you sure of yourself? Can you overcome the Senestro?”
“I am certain,” spoke Watson. “It is for the queen, O Aradna. I know nothing of the prophecy; but I will fight for you!”