“Philip Eustace Meredith Grosvenor and Richard Maitland,” he boggled the names a little, especially those of Grosvenor, “ye have entered the country of the Izreelites uninvited, and without even asking permission to do so. Had ye sought permission before crossing our border, it would have been refused you, and ye would have been turned back and permitted to depart in peace. But to enter this land uninvited, and without obtaining permission, is against our law, and the punishment for the offence is the Slow Death!”
Here the speaker made an impressive pause, as though to allow the statement to be thoroughly absorbed by the understanding of those most intimately concerned. Then he resumed:
“But we learn from the officer Benoni, who brought you hither, that since entering our country ye have saved the lives of two men; and since men’s lives are more valuable to the Izreelites than aught else, we have decided to mitigate your punishment to this extent: ye shall live, if ye will, upon condition that ye swear never to attempt to leave the country without the royal assent, and to devote yourselves henceforth to the service of Izreel in such manner as ye may be directed. Say now, therefore, will ye accept life, with the condition attached to the gift; or will ye go forth from hence to die the Slow Death?”
This speech Grosvenor carefully translated to Dick, finishing up by asking:
“What answer shall I give the Johnnie, Dick? On the one hand, I have no fancy for being marched out from here to die the Slow Death, whatever that may be—something pretty horrible, I have no doubt, by the sound of it—but, on the other hand, I have just as little inclination to bind myself to end my days here, among these chappies—eh, what?”
“I fully agree with you, my dear fellow, on both points,” answered Dick; “but there is one broad principle upon which I invariably act, and that is, where one is confronted by a choice between two evils, always to choose the lesser of the two. In this case I think there can be no question as to which is the lesser of the two evils between which we have to choose; because if we were foolish enough to choose death it would mean the end of all things sublunary for us; whereas if we choose life, even with the condition attached, there is always a sporting chance of something happening to make matters better for us. For myself, I would rather live, even here, than die the death, whether slow or quick. My advice, therefore, is to take the life which is offered us, and make the best of it.”
“Very well, then; that’s agreed,” returned Grosvenor, who proceeded forthwith to explain laboriously to the unseen judges that they accepted the alternative of life offered them.
The decision was received with low murmurs of what sounded like satisfaction on the part of those behind the grille. A short silence next ensued, which was followed by further mutterings among the unseen judges, who seemed to be debating some important point. Finally an intimation came from those mysterious individuals that the strangers were to be marched to the Great Hall, there to take the oath which formed the condition upon which they accepted their lives; whereupon the officer, Benoni, gave an order, and the prisoners were marched out of the Judgment Hall through the door by which they had entered.
Making their way back along the passage which they had previously traversed, the party presently found themselves in the central hall out of which all the passages in the building seemed to radiate. Traversing this, they now entered another and much wider passage, which conducted them into what was presumably the Great Hall; for it was a square apartment measuring fully a hundred feet each way, lighted on two adjacent sides by lofty windows glazed with the talc-like substance which the two friends had before observed, only in the present case the glazing glowed with rich colour, having been painted or dyed with marvellous skill into representations of various apparently symbolical subjects, as were also the lights in a great central dome which, supported by massive columns, occupied about three-fourths of the roof space of the apartment. These columns as well as the walls and flat portion of the roof of the hall, were also very elaborately decorated in colour, while the floor was composed of white marble. A long, thin rod, which might be gold, judging from its sheen and colour, depended from the great boss, or keystone, of the dome, supporting a group of seven beautifully ornate, lighted lamps, at a height of about twenty feet above the floor; and immediately beneath these there was a table covered with a cloth, woven in a most intricate and elegant pattern, apparently of very fine gold thread. Upon this table there lay a large roll of parchment manuscript, wound upon two golden rods, decorated with what looked like pine cones wrought in gold at the ends; and behind the table stood seven venerable men with long white moustaches, and beards reaching to their waists, clad in a hooded garment of finest wool, dyed black, reaching to their feet. Their hoods were drawn so far over their heads and faces that little of their features could be seen, save their eyes, which glowed out of the sombre shadow cast by their hoods.
The young Englishmen, still in the custody of the guard, were marched up to within about ten feet of the table, where they were halted; whereupon the central and apparently oldest figure of the seven said, in a deep, grave voice—which both at once recognised as that which had spoken from behind the grille: