"My People!" he began, in a deep, slow voice. "We live in an age when doubt roams through the world like a beast of prey. I ask not for the faith that accepts blindly; but in this most sacred Scitsym—" he pointed to the white book upon the lectern—"it is written that, by a certain secret Sign, the Arch-Mystics will recognize Him for whom they have waited. I call upon the Arch-Mystics to declare whether or no I bear upon my person that secret Sign!" He paused for a moment; then with a grave, calm gesture he unfastened his robe where it crossed his breast and threw it open.
There was a rustle of intense curiosity, as all involuntarily leaned forward; an audible gasp of awe and shrinking, as all instinctively drew back before the sight that confronted them. Across the Prophet's breast, in marks of a cruel laceration, ran the symbolic octagonal figure of the Mystic sect.
He stood dignified and unmoved until the tremor of emotion had subsided. Then his glance travelled over the foremost row of seats.
"Come forth!" he commanded, authoritatively. "Come forth and acknowledge me!" His eyes moved slowly from seat to seat—pausing momentarily on the pale, absorbed face of the woman in black. But scarcely had his glance rested upon her than the heavily built man who sat beside her, rose agitatedly and stepped forward to the sanctuary. For a space he stood staring at the scarred skin from which the symbol of his creed stood forth as if miraculously branded; then he turned to the congregation, his prominent eyes burning, his heavy face working with emotion.
"Brethren," he said, inarticulately. "Brethren, it is indeed the Sign!"
But the Prophet remained motionless.
"Where are the other five?" he asked, in a level voice.
Almost simultaneously four men rose from the congregation and came forward. One was tall and gaunt, with a Slavonic type of face, wild eyes, and a long, fair beard; another was young—scarcely more than seven and twenty—with the free carriage, fiery glance, and swarthy complexion of the nomadic races of southeastern Europe; the third was a small, frail man of fifty, with a nervous system painfully in advance of his physical strength; while the fourth was a true mystic—impassioned, enthusiastic, detached. One by one these men advanced, examined the scars, and turning to the people, confirmed the words of their fellow. Then, amid a tremulous hush, the last of the six—the Arch-Councillor himself—was led up the aisle.
For an instant the glimmering of some new feeling crossed the Prophet's face, as his glance rested on the old man who slowly approached with feeble steps, bent back, and anxious, sightless eyes. But, as quickly as it had come, the expression passed, and he stepped forward for the old man's touch.