Oltis and Urgis read. And Oltis, with exceeding reluctance, replied:
“We know it. It hath ever been kept.”
The silent one wrote again:
“There is an olden prophecy—‘When the stranger from a far land would seek his own within the temple, the high priest is safe in forbearing of the heart.’”
“A prophecy I laugh at,” sneered Oltis. Though his uncertain looks testified to the opposite.
He of silence again wrote:
“Putting the olden law beside the olden prophecy meaneth much on this day.”
Oltis and Urgis looked at each other in doubt, more than in doubt. For fear lurked behind the doubt—the fear that comes of dread of penalty—the fear that will attack the stoutest, most reckless villains, at times. What was there in this mysterious priest that served to tongue-tie them, as it were—yet loosened every evil and falsity of their souls until their minds beholding, shrank from such as though they were ghastly phantoms? Finally, Urgis, in his quality of lesser villain, broke silence.
“Oltis, it would be well to think upon it. Let us speak together.”
“I will speak here,” vociferated Oltis. “There needeth no meddling priest, no speaking together to show me my duty. If olden law and olden prophecy join, I must obey. The youth can go free. But woe to him should he sin again!”