Behind him, walking abreast, came three dark-robed, sinister figures, plainly masked and hooded, carrying heavy, shining swords. They were the proudest men in Rukh to-day, for by right of their office well-performed each would claim, and be accorded, privilege to send a girl-child to the Rukh’s harem. Out there close by the great waiting Goddess, close to the spot where the swords would swing and hack at the white offered necks, the three little girls stood side by side dressed in the saffron-edged magenta of brides, their dark little faces golden and shining with joy, each eyeing the other two rather scornfully.
After the executioners followed musicians—in splendid, more secular motley, their cheeks puffed out mump-like with the exertion that blew weird notes through Rukh’s weird sacred reed and bamboo instruments.
When they reached it the priests grouped themselves about the throne, salaaming to it twice, thrice to the Goddess that backed it.
Rukh paused an instant at the prisoners. “May I trouble you to move a little aside?” he asked with insolent civility. “I am, for the moment, not a king, but a priest, and must observe a certain holy dignity. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
They made way for him—but still the man held close in his own the woman’s hand. And her fingers clung to his like twisted, writhed icicles now.
He passed slowly on to the throne and, to a reiterated salvo of priestly salaams and of shrilled flutes, took his seat.
The people screamed and moaned with delight and loyalty.
Rukh spoke again to the woman standing there waiting with her hand still in her lover’s. Traherne was trembling almost violently now, Lucilla Crespin was perfectly still.
“Must I do violence to my feelings, Madam,” the Raja-priest said, “by including you in the approaching ceremony? There is still time.”
She took no other notice, but she met his eyes.