“Oh, instantly. What is beyond that curtain, Mr. Barringcourt? Tell us, or show us, pray.”
The silence of expectation had settled on the guests. Barringcourt leaned forward toward the table, playing with the half-filled glass of wine beside him. And when he spoke his voice was low, yet perfectly distinct.
“You know,” said he, “it was a foible of Mr. Todbrook’s to collect as many heathen gods and false ones as lay in his power. This house was built on a system—I might say systems—of idolatry; its furniture collected from disused temples sought for all over the face of Lucifram.
“Behind that curtain stands a god, more hideous than any I have ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty in my time, as maybe most of you have done. The curtain came along with it from the temple where it stood, and in a state of wonderful preservation. Over one thousand years in age.”
“What is beyond?” was the general question throughout the chamber.
“A death’s-head of unusual size, worshipped and feared of all in the parts from where it came.”
“Let us see it.” A general murmur of anticipation ran round the room.
“These poor heathens!” said one lady, and her tone was patronising. “How ignorant they must have been.”
“And are still in some parts, madam,” said he.
“We do our best with the missionaries,” she replied.