Like all prophecies, it was somewhat
Delphic; but he could get the general drift. In that golden script
he was looking into the heart of all Thomahlia--into its
greatness, its culture, its civilisation itself. It was the soul
of the Blind Spot, the reason and the wherefore of all about him.
He heard someone step up behind him, and he turned. It was the
Senestro, going over the words of the prophecy.
"Can you read it, Sir Phantom?" asked the handsome Bar. His black
eyes were twinkling with delight. "Have you read it all?"
He put a hand on Chick's shoulder. It was a careless act, almost
friendly. Either he had the heart of a devil or the chivalry of a
paladin. He pointed to a line:
"'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.'"
"And if I were the false one, you would slay me?" asked Watson.
"Aye, truly!" answered the splendid prince. "You are well made and
good to look upon. I shall hold you in my arms; I shall hear your
bones crack; it shall be sweeter music than that of the temple
pheasants, who never sing but for the Jarados. I shall slay you
upon the Spot, Sir Phantom!"
Watson turned on his heel. The ethics of the Senestro were not of
his own code. He was not afraid; he stood beside the Jan Lucar and
gazed out into the body of the temple. As far as he could see,
under and past the fourteen great pillars and right up to the far
wall, the floor was a vast carpet of humanity.
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