“The parable was thine own, King.”
“What am I to do?”
He was jerking and mowing in a fever of petulance.
The Wizard turned to his priestess.
“Shall nothing, then, arrest this darkness, stunt its growth, and nullify the prophecy?”
“One thing—one man alone,” she answered impassive. Indeed she was only repeating a lesson.
“What thing?” he said.
“To plant another instant in his place, while yet the ground gapes wide from his uprooting.”
“What other?”
She held her hands palm downwards over the chafing-dish. Instantly a lurid smoke rose from it, and in the midst appeared upright letters of fire, which spelt the name Léotade. She raised her hands, and the letters sunk and disappeared (in one piece).