For the moment complete silence prevailed while Cy Liskard’s pale eyes surveyed the thing with which he was confronted. He was sober enough now, and there was no lack of understanding in him. He knew he was the victim of no play game. For even he, comparative stranger as he was to the life of Beacon Glory, had heard of the doings of the men of the Aurora Clan.
He had offended. He realised that. He had offended these self-appointed custodians of the city’s morals, and he was searching acutely the doubtful chances confronting him.
His cold eyes passed over each silent figure in its white cloth gown. He sought to penetrate the conical hoods which enveloped each head, masking it completely and falling generously upon the shoulders. And all the time he was aware of the ugly thing which hung precisely at the level of his neck.
The futility of his search quickly impressed itself upon him. Bound fast, he was completely helpless. These people had left him with sufficient freedom to stand erect, but that was all. At length the silence, his own impotence, and the hideous threat of the dangling rope got the better of his none too generous stock of self-restraint. He stirred, and sought to twist his powerful arms free under their painful bonds. Then of a sudden his voice rang out sharply, harshly, in a characteristic challenge.
“Well? What the hell—next?”
There was fury in his challenge. There was a shadow of something else in its violence. And as the sound of it died away the silence of the night came back at him, filling him with a sense of his own utter helplessness.
A few moments later one of the white figures stepped out of its place in the circle. It came forward and halted before the hanging rope. It raised its arms and took possession of the noose, and when the rope was finally released the captive realised that the noose had been considerably widened.
Then the man stood a pace back and made a sign with outstretched hands. He beckoned in two directions. And, in a moment, the captive was seized from behind and securely held by his bound arms.
Putting forth a tremendous effort, Cy Liskard sought to free himself. It was quite hopeless; and the effort, as a result of his bonds, only cost him his balance, and, but for the support of his captors he would have fallen to the ground.
The prisoner was no longer under any illusion. The thing about to happen was obvious, and the silence of it all suddenly drove panic surging. The man in front of him had again possessed himself of the swinging noose. He approached slowly. Then, in a moment, the rope was placed over the prisoner’s head and rested loosely upon his shoulders.