"Most assuredly. A Rhamda is always first an athlete."

"Why?"

"Perfection, my lord. A perfect mind does not always dwell in a perfect body, but they strive for it as much as possible. The first test of a Rhamda is his body. After he passes that he must take the mental test."

"Mental?"

"Moral first. The most rigid, perhaps of all; he must be a man above suspicion. The honour of a Rhamda must never be questioned. He must be upright and absolutely unselfish. He must be broad-minded, human, lovable, and a leader of men. After that, my lord, comes the intellectual test."

"He must be a learned man?"

"Not exactly, your lordship. There are many very learned men who could not be Rhamdas; and there are many who have had no learning at all who eventually were admitted. The qualifications are intellectual, not educational; the mind is put to a rigid test. It is examined for alertness, perception, memory, reason, emotion, and control. There is no greater honour in all the Thomahlia."

"And they are all athletes?"

"Every one, my lord. In all the world there is no finer body of men, I myself would hesitate before entering a match with even the old Rhamda Geos."

"How about the Rhamda Avec?"

"Nor he, either; in the gymnasium he was always the superior, just as he topped all others morally and mentally."

Did this explain the Avec's physical prowess, on the one hand, and the fact that he would not stoop to take that ring by force, on the other?

"Just one more thing, Jan Lucar. You have absolutely no fear that I may fail tomorrow?"

"Not the slightest, my lord. You cannot fail!"

"Why not?"

"I have already said--because you are from the Jarados."

And Chick, facing the greatest experience of his life, submerged in a sea wherein only a few islands of fact were visible, had to be content with this: his only friends were those who were firmly convinced of something which, he knew only too well, was a flat fraud! All this backing was based upon a misled faith.

No, not quite. Was there not that strange feeling that the Jarados himself was at his back? And had he not found that the prophet had been real? Did he not feel, as positively as he felt anything, that the Jarados was still a reality?

Chick went to bed that night with a light heart.

XL

THE TEMPLE OF THE BELL

It was hard for Chick to remember all the details of that great day.

Throughout all the morning and afternoon he remained in his apartments.

Breakfast over, the Rhamdas told him his part in certain ceremonies, such as need not be detailed here. They were very solicitous as to his food and comfort, and as to his feelings and anticipations. His nonchalance pleased them greatly. Afterward he had a bath and rub-down.

A combat to the death, was it to be? Suits me, thought Watson. He was never in finer form.

The Jan Lucar was particularly interested. He pinched and stroked Chick's muscles with the caressing pride of a connoisseur. Watson stepped out of the fountain bath in all the vigour of health. He playfully reached out for the Lucar and tripped him up. He sought to learn just what the Thomahlians knew in the art of self-defence.

The brief struggle that ensued taught him that he need expect no easy conquest. The Jan was quick, active and the possessor of a science peculiarly effective. The Thomahlians did not box in the manner of the Anglo-Saxons; their mode was peculiar. Chick foresaw that he would be compelled to combine the methods of three kinds of combat: boxing, ju-jitsu, and the good old catch-as-catch-can wrestling. If the Senestro were superior to the Jan, he would have a time indeed. Though Watson conquered, he could not but concede that the Jan was not only clever but scientific to an oily, bewildering degree. The Lucar paused.

"Enough, my lord! You are a man indeed. Do not overdo; save yourself for the Senestro."

Clothes were brought, and Chick taken back to his apartment. The time passed with Rhamdas constantly at his side.

The Geos was not present, nor the little queen. Chick sought permission to sit by the window--permission that was granted after the guards had placed screens that would withhold any view from outside, yet permit Chick to look out.

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.

The writing was pencil script, done in a poor hand and ill-spelled, but still English. Chick read:

"Be of good cheer; there ain't a one in this world that can top a lad from Frisco. And it's Pat MacPherson that says it. Yer the finest laddie that ever got beyond the old Witch of Endor. You and me, if we hold on, is just about goin' to play hell with the haythen. Hold on and fight like the divil! Remember that Pat is with ye!

"We're both spooks.

"PAT MACPHERSON"

Said Watson: "Who gave you this? Did you see the man?"

"It was sent up my lord. The man was a high Bar in the Senestro's guard."

Watson could not understand this. Was it possible that there were others in this mysterious region besides himself? At any rate, he wasn't wholly alone. He felt that he could count upon the Irishman--or was this fellow Scotch? Anyhow, such a man would find the quick means of wit at a crucial moment.

Suddenly Watson noted a queer feeling of emptiness. He looked out of the window. The music had ceased, and the incessant hum of the throngs had deadened to silence. It was suspended, awesome, threatening. At the same time, the Jan Lucar came to attention, at the opposite door stood the Rhamda Geos, black clad, surrounded by a group of his fellows.

"Come, my lord," he said.