“Hold on for a paraparth,” ejaculated Cabot, seizing the young priest by the arm. “You can’t let me go blindly like this. This method of procedure may appeal to your sense of intrigue or your love of mystery, but surely it is highly impractical to send me into enemy territory with absolutely no disguise, and no intimation as to who I am supposed to be, or how I am supposed to act.”
Nan-nan mildly remonstrated, “As to who you are supposed to be, I have already informed you that you are ‘Arta.’ As to how you are supposed to act, I have already instructed you, when challenged by any sentinel, to give your name and show the sign.”
“But who is Arta,” expostulated Myles, “and why all the hocus pocus?”
“Ah,” replied the priest, “the less you know, the less secure you will feel. And the less secure you feel, the more careful you will be. Is it not so?”
“I suppose so,” assented the earth-man grudgingly.
“Then,” said his mentor, “Good-by. And may the Builder bless you.”
And patting Cabot’s cheek, he turned and strode off down the path whence they had come. Myles drew his revolver and a deep breath, and set out resolutely to scale the hill ahead. But he walked slowly, although steadily, for his strength was not yet all that it should be.
Thus about a parth passed, when suddenly from in front of him came the words: “Stop, in the name of the king!”
A Cupian stood before him with a revolver in his left hand. For a moment they sized each other up.
Then “Which king?” Cabot asked.