The Professor sat rigid, the smile fading slowly from his lips. His hands slowly tightened on the arms of his chair until the knuckles showed white. “I—I—did not catch—that is, what—the House of the Seven Feathers, did you say?”
Pity showed in the young man’s eyes, but he did not waver. “Yes, I said that—Brother,” he reiterated.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Maxime leaned forward. “What shall I say to remind you?” he asked. “Shall I recite the oath of brotherhood or call the names of the Defenders of the Cause? Shall I adjure you by fire or steel or rope? I come from the House of the Seven Feathers, Brother. Make answer!”
The Professor’s dry lips moved. “What is their color, Brother?” he asked, the words dropping unwillingly from his lips.
“Red!” The man touched his hand to his forehead.
“May they prosper!” The Professor stroked his beard. The first shock was past, and the words came easier. After all, the visit could portend little. He was too old. “Very well,” he said. “I acknowledge the call. What will you?”
“The Brotherhood has need of you.”
“The Brotherhood has no longer a claim on me. I did it good service once. I gave it my youth and my early manhood, and I paid for it to the full. That was twenty years ago. For twenty years I have had no intercourse with it. My obligation is ended.”
“So long as fire burns and water flows; so long as steel cuts and grass grows; till death and after it,” quoted the other softly.