“He would be immediately banished in disgrace from the Fourth Dimension without fear or favor, conscience would tenaciously torment him, remorse repeatedly revile him, and direful things would befall him.”
Again the questioner:
“Does he know this?”
And again the rejoinder:
“All this he knows. He has heard and he must heed.”
A countersign was given, the guard stepped back, and the column moved forward. Hamilton found himself in a clearing, from the center of which rose a rude altar and about which hundreds of hooded Tribesmen stood massed. The bearer of the fiery cross circled the clearing. The groups of neophytes followed.
The white forms, the flickering light, all had confused Hamilton and he now perceived that the Tribesmen were standing in a double rank, through which he was marching. Four times the group stopped before a Tribesman, who sat exalted on a high chair or rock—exactly what, it was too dark to see—and harangued them. There were questions about obedience, about secrecy, about fidelity, about tribal fealty. Robert was too confused to hear all the questions or to understand those he heard.
The groups of neophytes had once more become a line. The bearer of the fiery rood stalked behind the altar and thrust the flaming emblem in the ground. It was the sole light. A masked figure stepped forward and held out his hand:
“Always remember that to keep the oath means to you, honor, happiness and life; but to violate it means disgrace, dishonor and death.” It was a voice of frenzy. The flames and shadows danced weirdly. The moon gleamed through the black trees. The silent Tribesmen peered through the slits in their hoods.
“You will place your left hand over your heart and raise your right hand to heaven.”