He had come out upon a
wide platform, or rostrum. He now noticed that he was flanked on
either side by thrones--two of them; they seemed made of golden
amber. The one on the right was occupied by a man, the other by a
woman. In the pause that was vouchsafed him Chick took note of
these two, and wondered.
In the first place, the man was not a Rhamda. The jewelled semi-
armour that he wore was more significant than the dignified garb
of the Intellectuals; at the same time, his accoutrements
cheapened him, by contrast. He was executive, princely, with the
bearing that comes of worldly ambitions and attainments; a man
strangely handsome, vital, athletic; curling hair, dark, quick
eyes and even features; except only for the mouth he might have
been taken as a model of the Greek Alexander.
The clothes he wore were classic, as was everything else about
him, even to his sandals, his bare arms and his jewelled
breastplate.
Watson had studied history. He had a quick impression of a
composite--of genius, cruelty and sensuality. Here was one with
three strong natures, a sort of Nero, Caligula and Alexander
combined: the sensuality of the first, the cruelty of the second,
and the instinctive fire and greatness of the immortal Macedonian.
The man was smiling; not an amused smile, but one of interest,
humorous tolerance.
When their eyes met, Chick caught the magnetic current of
personality, the same sense of illusiveness that he and Harry
Wendel had noted in the Nervina; only here it was negative,
resisting instead of aiding.
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