Ours was indeed a progress full of triumph and enthusiasm. The heir to the throne, long since mourned for as lost, had returned, and the loyal people were filled with great rejoicing. Through one spacious courtyard after another we passed, always between long lines of stalwart men-at-arms, bearing good English rifles and well-made accoutrements, until, ascending a short flight of wide steps of polished black stone, we found ourselves in a great hall beneath one of the gilded domes that had so impressed our head-man. Before us was a huge curtain of purple velvet that screened from view the further end of the hall, but when all had assembled and stood grouped together, this drapery was suddenly lifted, disclosing to our gaze a sight that filled us with greatest wonder and amazement.
The central object was the historic Emerald Throne, a wonderful golden seat so thickly encrusted with beautiful green gems as to appear entirely constructed of them. Some of the stones were of enormous size, beautifully cut, of amazing brilliance and fabulous value. Above, was suspended a golden representation of a crocodile—the god Zomara. Lolling lazily among the pink silk cushions was a woman, tall, thin-faced and ascetic, with a complexion white as my own, high cheek bones, small black, brilliant eyes, and hair plentifully tinged with grey. Her personality was altogether a striking one, for her brow was low, her face hawk-like, and her long, bony hands resting on the arms of the seat of royalty seemed like the talons of the bird to which her face bore resemblance.
It was the Naya, the dreaded Great White Queen!
Her robes of rich brocaded silk were of a brilliant golden yellow, heavily embroidered with gold thread, and thickly studded with various jewels. In the bright flood of sunlight that struck full upon her from the painted dome above, the diamonds and rubies enriching her handsome corsage gleamed and flashed white, green and blood-red. Indeed, so covered was her breast by the fiery gems that as it heaved and fell their flashing dazzled us; yet in her eyes was a cruel, crafty gleam that from the first moment I saw her roused instinctively within me fear and suspicion.
No smile of welcome crossed her cold, implacable features as her gaze met that of her son Omar; no enthusiastic or maternal greeting passed her lips. Her maids of honour and courtiers grouped about her murmured approbation and welcome as the heavy curtains fell aside, but frowning slightly she raised her bejewelled claw-like hand impatiently with a gesture commanding silence, darting hasty glances of displeasure upon those who had, by applauding, lowered her regal dignity. On either side black female slaves in garments of crimson silk and wearing golden girdles, massive earrings and neck chains, slowly fanned the ruler of Mo with large circular fans of ostrich feathers, and from a pedestal near her a tiny fountain of some fragrant perfume shot up and fell with faint plashing into its basin of marvellously-cut crystal. The splendour was barbaric yet refined, illustrative everywhere of the tastes of these denizens of the unknown kingdom. The walls of the great hall were strangely sculptured with colossal monstrosities, mostly hideous designs, apparently intended to depict the awful wrath of the deity Zomara, while here and there were curious frescoes of almost photographic finish, the execution of which had been accomplished by some art quite unknown to European civilization. The paving whereon we stood was of jasper, highly polished, with here and there strange outlines inlaid with gold. These outlines, a little crude and unfinished, were mostly illustrative of the power of the Nayas, depicting scenes of battle, justice and execution.
"Let our son Omar stand forth and approach our Emerald Throne," exclaimed the Naya at last, in a thin, rasping voice, moving slightly as she bent forward, fixing her shining eyes upon us. They glittered with evil.
At the royal command all bowed low in submission, it being etiquette to do this whenever the Naya expressed command or wish, and Omar, leaving my side, strode forward with becoming hauteur, and, crossing the floor as highly polished as glass, advanced to his royal mother, and, bending upon his knee, pressed her thin, bony hand to his lips.
But even then no expression of pleasure crossed her stony features. I had expected to witness an affectionate meeting between mother and son, and was extremely surprised at the coldness of my friend's reception, having regard to his long absence and the many perils we had together faced on our entry into Mo.
"News was flashed unto me last night that thou hadst crossed the Thousand Steps," the Queen said, slowly withdrawing her bony hand. "Why hast thou returned from the land of the white men, and why, pray, hast thou brought hither strangers with thee?"
"These strangers are heroes, each one of them," Omar answered, rising, and standing before the throne. "Every man has already fought for thee, and for Mo."