“So be it.”
Seeing that she was not to be dissuaded, Yermah offered no further objection.
The bay extended down to Monterey at that time—Monterey, the quaint old Spanish town, where the first American flag was unfurled on this coast.
Hanabusa had managed to pick up six other balsas loaded with provisions and manned by stout rowers whose fealty was unquestioned.
When this little remnant of Atlantians and Monbas reached the seas through Monterey Bay, they were the last of the Mazaleels—a term of derision applied to them by conservative Azes. Mazaleel was simply another name for half-breed, and for ages after was a despised epithet.
Steadily and in secret, before there was light enough to betray their movements, the conspirators wheeled the catapult back to the parade-grounds near the Observatory. Thinking that Yermah would return to the temple, they securely closed every door and window.
None of the monks ever awoke from their first insensibility.
Imos ordered the stable-doors to be left open and the north-gate ajar, so that Yermah’s absence might be discovered by some passer-by, but he took good care to be at home when the news flew over Tlamco.
He was the first to suggest that the Dorado’s flight was to conceal a crime, and was properly shocked and horrified when the facts were made known.
With a preternaturally long face and proper unction, Imos went to Setos, and offered to officiate in Yermah’s stead.