"—Nothing but an impostor! An impostor! A thief!"
He spoke loudly—even violently. To his listener it seemed that his voice rang out, filling the room, filling the street outside, filling the whole world. As she had done in the Prophet's presence, she raised her hands and pressed them over her ears. But, even through her fingers, his tones came loud and penetrating.
"An impostor!" he cried, again. "A liar! A blasphemer!"
Her hands dropped from her face.
"Stop! Stop!" she cried, weakly.
But he was beyond appeal.
"You must hear!" he cried. "It is ordained. You have been the unwitting instrument by which the man has fallen."
"I? I? The instrument?" She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face.
"Yes, you!" He stepped to her side. "Without you, suspicion would never have been aroused. Without you, he might have carried out his base designs. It was the power of the Unseen that guided me on the day I entered the Presence Room and found you alone with him." He spoke hurriedly and disjointedly, but as the last word left his lips another expression crossed his face, as though a new suggestion passed through his mind.
"Did you see nothing strange in that Audience?" he demanded. "Did you see nothing strange in the fact that he—a Prophet of Sublime Mysteries—should hold your hand, as any man of the earth might hold it?" He bent still closer, jealousy and suspicion darkening his face.