“They are,” came the reply in hollow tones from a black-robed figure at the extremity of the cave. He sat under a torchlight, his black mask hideously splashed with red, an immense volume spread open before him, and in his hand a huge long-handled pen.
“Then advance and give the candidate sign A, of rite number one.”
The person in the black robe arose, laid down his pen, and advanced to within five feet of the victim.
Van Loan stood quietly looking on, his face pale with anger and excitement, and under his eyes dark rings indicative of suppressed passion. Yet, burning as he was with rage, he was still calm enough to note with deep interest the apparent inflexibility of the right arm and shoulder of the person who approached him.
The Grand Scribe lifted his robe slightly, preparatory to some mock ceremony of initiation; but whatever his intention was, he never carried it out. In that instant, Van Loan, who had deftly slipped his hand from the bandage that bound his wrists, reached out and tore the mask completely from the face of the black-robed hazer.
It was done in a second; and there, under the glare of the torchlight, stood Parmenter, fully, distinctly revealed.
“I thought as much,” was Van Loan’s quiet comment; “now go on with the ceremony.”
Seeing that it was useless for him to contend against so many, he had decided from the first to obey implicitly the will of the hazers while in their power, mentally reserving to himself liberty to violate at pleasure any promise or agreement he might make under such hard conditions.