“But seriously,” she insisted.
“Oh, seriously!” He laughed the more. “Well, seriously, my poor child, I’d advise you to remember the clay feet of the ‘Sporting Parson.’ Far be it from me to try to improve a perfectly bad mind. ‘The Little Book shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey, but shall make thy belly bitter.’ That’s one of my own handy, illiterate translations. M’lady, the carriage awaits. Time we were on our way.”
He was pleased to drive her to the promised entertainment in his favorite Hawk. While drifting through the drab air of night in Gehenna, lit only by that “pale, abiding light” whose dynamo was beyond control of his electricians, he explained the kind of “show” to which he was escorting her. In it he was not to star, no. It was only a motion picture, but one in which he felt that she, as well as he, would take interest.
They were to see, in fact, a picturization of certain unfinished details connected with her own career on earth, over which he, for one, felt curiosity. He had ordered the life-films to date of John Cabot brought from the supply house and cut to give a comprehensive exposé of a character that would refuse to heed the death cries of a girl whom, by the honor code of Earth, he was bound to protect. Satan himself had hit on an apt title, but had not previewed the picture and had left the sub-titling to his first fiend-scenarist. He hoped for an entertaining and regardless presentation.
At the Devil’s Own Playhouse it was evident that the feature had been extensively billed. The capacity of the theater was taxed to standing-room when the King led his interesting guest into the royal box. Down over the billows of faces that waved back at their entrance, Dolores looked with pitying eyes. On a few was apathy; on more, fevered eagerness; on most, apprehension. The Sea of the Fear of Despair they were—a Dead Sea, indeed. She, too, soon was carried out toward its white-caps of hoping thoughts, caught in its undertow. This she realized from the emotion within herself which began with the curtain’s rise—the deeps of heartbreak disturbed by the high-winds of hope.
The camera was said not to lie. If His Highness’ boasted topical review was bona-fide, some excuse might evolve for him who had refused to heed her call.
The series of incidents unfolded upon the super-quick silver screen may most readily be grasped, perhaps, by a perusal of the working synopsis to which the master-director of Hell Films cut the production.
THE TURN TURTLE
HIS SATANIC MAJESTY
Presents
John Cabot
In Facts from His Natural History
Shown in Three Turns.
(On Screen)