As far as he could see, the avenues were packed with people. Only,
this time the centres of the streets were clear; on the curbs he
could see the opposing lines of the blue and crimson, holding back
the waiting thousands. In the distance he could hear chimes, faint
but distinct, like silver bells tinkling over water.
At intervals rose strange choruses of weird, holy music. The full
sweep of the city's domes and minarets was spread out before him.
From eaves to basements the rolling luxuriance of orchidian
beauty; banners, music, parade; a day of pageant, pomp, and
fulfilment.
He could catch the excitement in the air, the strange, laden
undercurrent of spiritual salvation-something esoteric,
undefinable, the ecstasy of a million souls pulsing to the throb
of a supreme moment. He drew back, someone had touched him.
"What is it?"
It was one of the Rhamdas. He had in his hand a small metal
clover, of the design of the Jarados.
"What do I do?" asked Watson.
"This," said the Rhamda, "was sent to you by one of the Bars."
"By a Bar! What does it mean?"
The other shook his head. "It was sent to you by one who wished it
to be known by us that he is your friend, even though a Bar."
Just then Watson noted something sticking out of the edge of one
of the clover leaves. He pulled it out. It was a piece of paper.
On it were scrawled words IN ENGLISH.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344