First behind his master came the Precursor. And to Enid's searching gaze it seemed that his face was set into unfamiliar and anxious lines; but under his black cap and red hair, his skin looked colorless and drawn. But after the first glance, her eyes were not for him; with swift apprehension they passed to the six Arch-Mystics who, walking two and two, formed the procession.
Animated by the speed of actual fear, her gaze passed from the abnormally agitated face of old Arian, the blind Arch-Councillor, to the dark, turbulent face of Bale-Corphew, who brought up the rear. The survey was rapid and comprehensive; and to her uneasy mind the thought came with unerring certainty that, on all the six faces—differing so markedly in physical characteristics—there was a common look of suppressed excitement, of suppressed resolve.
As they passed her seat, Norov turned and shot a glance of cold curiosity in her direction; but otherwise the whole group seemed unaware of her presence. Still inert, she sat, watching every movement in the scene before her as one might watch a drama that would, at a given moment, cease to be entertainment and become real life.
Very quietly the Prophet advanced to the Scitsym and, following the customary routine, opened it and began to read.
The words were a strange jargon of mystical counsel interspersed with the relation of mystical visions and ecstasies. On ordinary lips, the long, disjointed sentences and disconnected phrases would have sounded vague and incomprehensible; but, from the first, it had been one of the Prophet's special gifts that his deep, grave voice could lend weight and meaning to the fantastic utterances. And to-night it seemed that he intended to put forth all his powers; for scarcely had he opened the book and begun to read, than a stir of interest passed over the congregation; and even Enid, enmeshed in her own terrors, bent forward involuntarily.
He spoke very slowly, enunciating every word with studied seriousness; and from time to time he paused and looked across the sea of fixed and almost adoring faces turned in his direction. It was as if, by strength of will, he had determined that no point, no syllable, of this, his last reading, should be lost upon his hearers. More than once, Bale-Corphew moved uneasily and shot a glance at Norov; but the Prophet was unconscious of these surreptitious signs.
For half an hour he read on, slowly, distinctly, impressively; then, still following the routine of the evening service, he closed the book and calmly moved across the Sanctuary to the Throne. As he neared it, the Precursor stepped forward deferentially and conducted him to the foot of the gilt steps.
Having ascended, he took his seat with calm impassivity and, resting his hands upon the arms of the great gold chair, looked out once more upon the massed faces. This, according to custom, was the signal for a general movement. The congregation swayed forward, prostrating themselves upon the ground, while the Arch-Mystics gathered their wide, black robes about them and assumed attitudes of rapt contemplation.
In obedience to usage, Enid also dropped upon her knees and covered her face with her hands. But though her pose was conventional, there was little place in her thoughts for either prayer or meditation. One idea—and one only—absorbed her being. How, and at what moment, must she gather strength to act? She crouched upon the ground, her hands pressed tightly over her eyes. It seemed to her that all the torture, all the suspense and apprehension of the universe, were gathered into that half-hour of appalling silence. Once she ventured to unlace her fingers and glance through them fearfully; but at sight of the Prophet, calm, impassive, unconscious of his threatened danger—at sight of the six sombre shrouded figures that sat inside the Sanctuary railing, her blood turned cold and her courage quailed.