Trenmore gave Viola a sudden squeeze. "Powers o' darkness!" he whispered exultantly. "The pups have the makings of men in them, after all! They'll not give him up, their sweet-voiced lad. They'll die by the guns, men, women, and babes, but-"
"Surrender him!" The high priest's voice crackled ominously. "I'll give you while I count three. One-two-th-ree! Oh, very well there!"
His right hand started slowly up, palm out. A second more and the guns would resume their devilish chatter. There came a swirl in the crowd, a struggle, and out into the little open area by the pit sprang the singer, disheveled but triumphant.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. "Don't shoot! Friends, I thank you for everything-what you wished for me, what you have given, and what you would give if I would let you! But you," he turned upon Justice Supreme with the look and face of a deathless young god, unfearing and scornful, "you I do not even hate! You poor wreck of what was one time a man, you are already dead and damned in the rottenness of your vile body and viler spirit! If you are the servant of Penn, then I am his enemy. I go to tell him so!"
And before any man could stir a hand the boy had dived, head foremost, into the pit.
A moaning sigh rose, echoed, and fell. Those nearest the pit turned aside and covered their ears with their hands; but the shriek they dreaded never came. Presently one of the pit guard, lurking out of sight behind the dais, sneaked cautiously around, crept to the pit, and looked down. Then he raised his eyes to the purple, raging face of Mr. Justice Supreme. The high priest made a gesture with his cane. A moment later and the eagle and dove symbol swung into place again.
CHAPTER 16: DISASTER
IN barely thirty minutes the hall was emptied, cleansed of blood and debris, and the ceremony of the "examinations" resumed.
Mr. Justice Supreme had waited, dozing, on his throne. The lesser servants perforce waited also, albeit impatiently and with much glancing at watches and sotto voce complaint about the delay.
Sad, silent, and defeated, the Numbers had retired, bearing with them their injured and their dead. When the hall was at last cleared the lovely, milk-white pavement resembled more nearly the pit of a slaughter house than the floor of a temple. It was smeared and slimy with trampled blood, fragments of clothing, and other fragments less pleasant to contemplate. The temple force of "white wings," however, made short work of it. They dragged out a few lengths of hose, turned on a powerful water pressure and in less than five minutes the blood and debris were washed down three drains to which the pavement imperceptibly sloped. The wet floor gleamed whiter than ever, and the Red Bell and wonderful walls were reflected with redoubled glory. A corps of scrubwomen went to work on hands and knees to dry and polish the cleansed floor, while Mr. Pity, with a final glance at his watch, again rose and advanced to the platform edge.