Regan saw hundreds of thousands of his bird subjects rise, until they seemed all to go. He feared there would be none left. Turning from him with songs of rapture, they rose into angels before his very eyes, as birds flying in flocks from a shady forest come into a sunshine of yellow light.
For hours the bewildering sight continued, engrossing his entire attention. Then the forms began to recede. First, he could not see the gate. Then the angels seemed only like stars. Then there was nothing but a cold blue sky after sunset.
Where he had seen flakes of brightness loosed from the throne, he looked at a dull, common sky, giving no hint of the sphere beyond.
He saw nothing. But they had been there. Where had they gone?
He gazed about to see if any of his bird people were left.
He had forgotten. They stood there yet, waiting, those terrible headless men! The assembled multitudes had looked upon the result of his experiment!
“Go away! go away!” shrieked Regan.
The revulsion of feeling was awful. He had been looking at the glory astray from Heaven. He looked on deepest human misery. He had not only spoiled more than twenty years of their existence—he had kept them back from translation!
“Go away!” he repeated, wildly. “What if Rondah should ever see these men!”
“We have waited over twenty years!” insisted the speaking heads.