As he paused she made no sound; but her eyes rested upon his, fascinated by their feverish brightness; and in the midst of her silent regard he spoke again, bending forward until his lips approached her ear.

"They have laid their plans," he whispered, with a sudden and savage exultation, "but we also have laid ours. And even we cannot reckon upon the consequences. The spiritual enthusiast is not easy to hold in check, once he has been aroused!"

Enid stared at him, the pupils of her eyes dilated, her lips pale.

"You mean--? You mean--?" she stammered; then her fear found voice.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, in sharp, alarmed tones.

Bale-Corphew met her question, steadily.

"I mean," he said, with fierce vindictiveness, "that at the Gathering to-night he will be publicly denounced!"

He made the declaration slowly, and each word fell with overwhelming weight upon his companion's understanding. As in the bewildered mazes of a nightmare she saw the crowded chapel, the fanatical, unstable faces of the congregation, the six Arch-Mystics--outraged, incensed, unrelenting; and in their midst the Prophet, tall and grave and masterful, as she had seen him a hundred times. One man facing a sea of ungoverned emotion! At the vision her heart swelled suddenly and her soul sickened. With a gesture, almost as pa.s.sionate as his own, she turned upon Bale-Corphew.

"You would denounce him before the People?" she said, incredulously.

"You would trap him? One man against a hundred! Oh, it would be cowardly! Cruel!"

Bale-Corphew's face flamed to a deeper red.

"Cowardly? Cowardly? Do you know what you are saying? The man is a thief!"

For one moment she shrank before the epithet; the next she raised her head, her eyes flashing, her lips parted.

"You have no right to use that word. You have not seen him steal."

"Seen him? No. But the ears are as reliable as the eyes, and we have heard him declare that he intends to steal."

"Intends! Intends! Intentions are not acts." In her deep agitation, she turned upon him with a new demeanor.

"Oh, be merciful!" she cried. "Give him the benefit of mercy. Wait till the a.s.sembly is over, and then accuse him. If you can prove your accusation, then justice can be done. On the other hand--"

"The other hand?" Again Bale-Corphew's cruel laugh broke from him. "He has not shrunk from lies--from imposture--from blasphemy. Is it likely he will shrink from his reward? Oh no! We will run no risks. The trap has closed. No one will gain access to him to-night until the hour of the Gathering has arrived. It will be my special--my sacred--duty to watch and guard." As he spoke his eyes seemed to devour her face, and before the expression in their depths her strength faltered.

"And why have you come here?" she asked, unsteadily. "Why have you come here? What has this to do with me?"

As she put the questions, he watched her closely; and when her voice quivered, a spasm of emotion--a wave of jealousy and suspicion--swept his face.

"Can you ask that question?" he demanded.

Enid wavered.

"Why not?" she murmured. "Why should I not?"

"Why not?" He laughed again, suddenly and savagely. "Because the man loves you. Because he stole out of the house to-day--and came here to you. I tracked him here and tracked him back again."

Enid shrank away from him.

"So--so you are a spy?" she said, in a confused, uneven voice.

He turned instantly, his pa.s.sions aflame.

"A spy?" he cried. "I am a spy? Very well! We will see who comes out victor. The thief or the spy." His voice rose, his face darkened. The demon of jealousy that had pursued him for seven days was free of the leash at last.

"I wanted to know this," he exclaimed. "I wanted to be sure. I had my suspicions, but I wanted proof. On the day I surprised you with him, I suspected; to-day, when I saw him enter this house, I felt convinced--"

"Convinced of what?"

"Convinced that there is more in this matter than his love for you. That there is also--"

With a swift movement Enid stopped him. She was quivering violently, but she held her head high.

"Yes," she said, distinctly. "Yes, you are quite right. There is more in this matter than his love for me. There is also my love for him!"

Her eyes were blazing; her heart was beating fast. With an agitation equal to Bale-Corphew's own she moved to the fireplace and pressed the bell.

When the servant appeared she turned to her.

"Norris," she said, in a quiet voice, "show Mr. Bale-Corphew out."

CHAPTER IX

There are few phases of human existence more interesting than that in which a young and sensitive woman is compelled by circ.u.mstances to cast aside the pleasant artifices, the carefully modulated emotions of a sheltered life, and to face the realities of fact and feeling.

For twenty-three years Enid Witcherley had played with existence--toying with it, enjoying it, as an epicure enjoys a rare wine or a choice morsel of food prepared for his appreciation. Now, as she stood alone in her small drawing-room with its costly decorations, its feminine atmosphere, she was conscious for the first time that the banquet of life is not in reality a display of delicate viands and tempting vintages, but a meal of common bread--sweet or bitter as destiny decrees. She saw this, and with a flash of comprehension knew and acknowledged that her heart and her brain cried out for the wholesome necessary food.

An hour ago, when the Prophet had stood before her and made his confession, she had been overwhelmed by the tide of her own feelings; in the rush of humiliation and disappointment--in the tremendous knowledge that the image she had called gold was in reality but clay--she had been too mortified to see beyond her own horizon. In that moment their places in the drama had been indisputably allotted. She herself had appeared the unoffending heroine, unjustly humiliated in her own eyes and in the eyes of others; he had stood out, in unpardonable guise, the cause--the instrument--of that humiliation. In the bitter knowledge she had confronted him unrelentingly. A spoiled child--an unreasoning feminine egoist.

But now that moment, with its instructive and primitive emotions, was pa.s.sed by what seemed months--years--a century. By a process of mind as swift as it was subtle, the child had grown into a woman--the egoist had become conscious of another existence. With the entrance of Bale-Corphew--with the sound of her own denunciation upon his lips--a new feeling had awakened within her--a feeling stronger than humiliation, stronger than pride. It had risen, blinding and dazzling her, as a great light might blind and dazzle; and she stood glorified and exalted within its radiance.

As the door had closed upon her second visitor, a long sobbing sigh of excitement, of tumultuous joy and fear shook her from head to foot; she involuntarily drew her figure to its full height, and covered her face with both hands, as though to ward off the light that lay across her world.

But the great moment of joy and comprehension could not last; other and more insistent factors were at work within her mind--claiming, even demanding attention. Almost as the outer door closed upon Bale-Corphew, her hands dropped to her sides and an expression akin to terror crossed her eyes. With a mind rendered supersensitive by its own emotions, she realized what the next five hours might hold; and like a tangible menace the dark, angry face of the Arch-Mystic flashed back upon her consciousness.

While he had been present in the room, while his turbulent voice had filled her ears, she had been only partly alive to the threatened danger; but now that his presence had been removed, now that she was free to sift the meaning of his words, their full significance was borne in upon her. With an alarming clearness of vision, she recognized that behind his threats lay a definite meaning; that the man himself, at all times pa.s.sionate, and, on occasion, violent in temperament, had suddenly become a danger--something as fierce and menacing as an uncontrolled element.

She realized and understood this rapidly, as only the mind knows and comprehends in moments of stress and crisis; and before her knowledge, all ideas save one fell away like chaff before the wind. At all costs--in face of every obstacle--she must warn and save the Prophet!

With a start of apprehension, she glanced at the clock and saw that the hands marked ten minutes to seven. Moving to the fireplace, she once more pressed the bell; and as Norris answered, turned to her, heedless for perhaps the first time in her life of outward appearances.

"Get me my long black cloak, Norris," she said. "And a black hat and veil. I am going out."

Norris's face expressed no surprise.

"You will be back to dinner, ma'am?" she inquired.