As soon as Lien Weng had explained what the procedure was and before any part of it could be set in motion, John Endor rose a second time to speak. He now addressed himself mainly to George Hierons the American, and to his own countryman, Roland Holles. In the stress of the moment he did not hesitate to appeal to them as fellow members of the Anglo-Saxon world, men of his own race and blood, white men, men of western training and ideas to whom such proceedings as these must be subversive in the last degree.
The appeal, brief as it was, had all the cogency of an orator finely skilled in the art of appealing to the emotions. Speaking with absolute conviction, his words, it was clear, made a considerable impression upon those to whom they were addressed. The Frenchman and the Italian also felt their impact, but Lien Weng and Bandar Ali could not conceal a deep resentment in spite of the mask of calm politeness with which they tried to cover it.
“Believing as we do,” were Endor’s final words, “that this man, Saul Hartz, is the incarnation of evil and that he is a threat to the future of mankind, I am now convinced that the only true way of removing this dark shadow is to set in apposition to it the idea of God. Eight weeks ago, when I took my vow, for the moment I had lost my vision of the Eternal. It has now returned to me and I see that, as at present constituted, the Society of the Friends of Peace, albeit inspired by the highest of all human motives, cannot hope to achieve its aim.”
Endor’s protest made, he sat down again at the table. He must now abide the issue. Clairvoyantly he awaited the slow unfolding of an odd ritual. The proceedings began with curious solemnity. As the latest member of the Council of Seven, the task devolved upon himself of drawing from the velvet bag the first slip of paper.
Should he or should he not bear his part? It was a momentous decision to have to take. But there shot through his mind a clear perception of the fact that there was really no alternative. He was under oath to obey the rules of the Society or pay the heaviest penalty of all.
One glance at the faces around the table told him quite plainly that the penalty would be exacted. These men were not to be trifled with. He would die like a rat in a trap. And such an exit would not save Saul Hartz, nor would it help the future of mankind.
On the spur of the moment Endor had to decide. By a withdrawal now from the Council of Seven he would gain nothing and yet he would lose his life. Was he ready to lose it? Was he ready to lose it without a struggle for the vindication of his ideals? Automatically, yet with a subtle sense of coercion from the powerful minds around him, he dipped his hand into the velvet bag and drew out one of the slips of paper.
Unfolding the strip with a feeling of irresponsibility a little bizarre he found that on it was written the name George Hierons.
The rules now required that upon the American should devolve the duty of taking from the velvet bag the name of him who was called to a dreadful task.
A hush fell upon the table. In a silence that was physical torture to more than one around that bright mahogany, the strings at the bag’s mouth were pulled tight, and then the bag itself was handed to George Hierons.