And if the false ones cometh not, ye shall know that I have held them. Know ye the day!
Sixteen days from the day of the prophet, shall come the day of the judgment; and the way shall be opened, on the last day, the sixteenth day of the Jarados.
Hearken to the words of the Jarados, the prophet and mouthpiece of the infinite intelligence, ruler of justice, peace, and love! So be it forever!
Chick read it a second time. Like all prophecies, it was somewhat Delphic; but he could get the general drift. In that golden script he was looking into the heart of all Thomahlia—into its greatness, its culture, its civilisation itself. It was the soul of the Blind Spot, the reason and the wherefore of all about him.
He heard someone step up behind him, and he turned. It was the Senestro, going over the words of the prophecy.
“Can you read it, Sir Phantom?” asked the handsome Bar. His black eyes were twinkling with delight. “Have you read it all?”
He put a hand on Chick's shoulder. It was a careless act, almost friendly. Either he had the heart of a devil or the chivalry of a paladin. He pointed to a line:
“'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.'”
“And if I were the false one, you would slay me?” asked Watson.
“Aye, truly!” answered the splendid prince. “You are well made and good to look upon. I shall hold you in my arms; I shall hear your bones crack; it shall be sweeter music than that of the temple pheasants, who never sing but for the Jarados. I shall slay you upon the Spot, Sir Phantom!”