For giants indeed the newcomers were. An armed band of men, the shortest of whom towered a full head and shoulders above any other man in the hall. Ramey was six foot two. Red and the O'Brien brothers each also topped the six foot mark. But Ramey knew that all of them would appear as striplings if ranged beside this file of yeomanry. Six nine seemed a fair guess as to their average height, and he who marched at their head, a raven-haired, amber-skinned mountain of a man in the rich trappings of rank, assuredly topped the seven foot mark!
A mutter passed through the crowd as he entered, and Ramey, whose eye was trained to note the psychological reactions of men, thought he could detect in the attitude of those gathered a poorly veiled hostility, a resentment and will to rebellion held in check only by fear.
Then the newcomer spoke, his voice harsh, imperious, demanding. The natives answered, pointing fearfully at the idol housing Ramey and his companions. The giant captain's brow darkened, his eyes flashed scornful fire, and once more he raised his voice. Ramey turned to Dr. Aiken eagerly.
"What's he saying, Doc? Can you—?"
"No. It's no language I know. It sounds slightly like Sanskrit, but the syllablation and intonation are oddly different."
And then, surprisingly, Sheng-ti spoke beside them.
"Aie, doom!" he moaned softly. "Lo, the day of our judgment is at hand. For the gods walk again and speak their ancient tongues!"
Sheila gripped the old priest's arm tightly.
"Sheng-ti—you understand? Translate for us!"