When the wrestlers left the arena, hidden drums rumbled—throbbed out a tuneless miserere. Cymbals clashed metallically. A discordant blast of the trumpets whipped the air and a lama wearing a frightful mask with yak-horns upon it and tiger-skins flapping over his yellow robes moved toward the proscenium. He held a skull-bowl above him. Suddenly he paused and dashed its contents to the flagging, where it spread in an ugly crimson pool. Another burst of trumpets accompanied this.
"It is the Dance of the Gods," Na-chung told Trent.
A faint light showed itself in the councillor's eyes. Trent saw the same glow in the eyes of those around him—a glimmer of fanatical zeal.
The white-robed lamas danced into the center of the arena; whirled about, making strange signs; swayed to the monotonous boom-booming of the drums. The priests garbed as ancient warriors joined in, their nasturtium-hued mantles and golden harness aquiver like sinuous flames. As the dance continued, pilgrims frequently leaped up and prostrated themselves, intoxicated with a mystical vintage. Even Trent was not immune to infection. The drums throbbed against his heart and temples; throbbed and throbbed, until they seemed the pulse of a dull delirium.
The Dance of the Gods was interminably long and, after a while, lost its hypnotic power over Trent. The sun, a globe of angry red, was rapidly spinning into the west and a blood-shot sky flamed above the arena when the evil spirits were exorcized—for that, Na-chung explained, was the story told by the performance—and the dancers melted into the throngs of priests on either side of the proscenium.
"Now comes the Archery Contest," announced the councillor, a repressed gleam in his eyes. "It is the great event of the celebration—a demonstration of justice."
Even as he spoke, trumpets were blown. From behind the yak-hair curtains emerged a small body of men in golden chain-mail and helmets. (The armor and headgear interested Trent. Here were relics of the ancients—of Srong-tsan-gambo and the early Tibetan kings.) The rays of the sun reflected a dull radiance in the meshes of their armor; sent needles of fire weaving along the contours of gilded bows and quivers; glittered in blood-red and gold upon polished helmets.
"They belong to the guard of his Transparency the Governor," said Na-chung.
The archers lifted their bows in salute to the Living God. A visible ripple of admiration passed around the amphitheater. Heads were strained forward, eyes focussed upon the mailed bowmen, who aligned themselves on the right side of the arena—facing the black stakes. There was something pregnant and potent in their movements....
From a gateway opposite the archers rode a double file of soldiers. Between them walked a line of men in dun-colored garments. As Trent saw that they were manacled a frightful suspicion fastened upon him. With dreadful suddenness the purpose of the stakes became apparent....