A murmur rose from the chapel.
Bale-Corphew's face became purple.
"People! hear me!" he exclaimed. "This man is no Prophet. He is an impostor! A fraud! I have proof. I can give you proof!"
Of the extraordinary effect of these words Enid—crouching helplessly in her seat—saw nothing. All her senses were riveted upon one object—the tall, calm figure upon the steps of the Throne. By the power of intuition, rather than by physical observation, she saw the look of intense surprise, of incredulity merging to dismay, that crossed the Prophet's face at the Arch-Mystic's words. And at the sight the real meaning of his incomprehensible discourse passed over her mind in a wave of incredulous admiration. Believing himself secure in his position, he had voluntarily chosen to denounce himself.
That was her first thought as the matter became clear to her; but a chilling second thought followed sharp upon it. What would be the Prophet's reading of Bale-Corphew's knowledge? Would not one solution—and one only—present itself to his mind? The idea that she had betrayed his confidence. With the horror of the suggestion an ungovernable impulse filled her—an impulse to rise—to go to him—sweep the doubt from his mind. But an instant later the merely egotistical thought was obliterated by the greater issues that filled the moment.
After Bale-Corphew had spoken an uproar—a clamor—had suddenly filled the chapel; and now the rapt concourse of people had become as a turbulent sea. The Precursor, pale with intense nervous excitement, stood vainly striving to make his voice heard; while Bale-Corphew, closely surrounded by his fellow-Mystics, gesticulated violently.
At last the Prophet raised his hand; and by habit and training, the people subsided into silence.
Instantly Bale-Corphew's voice rang out.
"Listen!" he cried; "listen!"
But again the Precursor interrupted.