Voices were raised, some in approbation, some in angry protest and objection. A tall, lean oldster shouted, "Aye--this is Zeulas, returned once more. This is Orander's brother." "Be silent, Hira," another snapped. "This scarecrow Cyrena's king?" Elak flushed and took a half-step forward. Dalan's voice halted him. "You disbelieve, Gorlias?" he asked. "Well--d'you know of a worthier man? Will you sit on the dragon throne?" Gorlias looked at the Druid with an oddly frightened air; he fell silent and turned away. The others broke into a renewed chorus of quarreling. Hira silenced them. His lean face was triumphant. "There's one sure test. Let him take it." He turned to Elak. "The lords of Cyrena have fought like a pack of snarling dogs since Orander's death. Each wanted the throne. Baron Kond yelled louder than the rest. Dalan offered him the dragon throne, in the name of Mider, if he could hold it." * * * * * From the others a low whisper went up--uneasy, fearful. Hira continued: "Kond mounted the dais a month ago and sat on the throne. And he died! The fires of Mider slew him." "Aye," Gorlias whispered. "Let this Elak sit upon the throne!" A chorus of assent rose. Lycon looked worried. He murmured, "It's true, Elak. I saw it. Red fire came out of nowhere and burned Kond to a cinder." Dalan was silent, his ugly face impassive. Elak, watching the Druid, could not read a message in the shallow black eyes. Gorlias said, "If you can sit on the throne, I'll follow you. If not--you'll be dead. Well?" Elak did not speak. He turned and mounted the dais. For a moment he paused before the great throne of Cyrena, his gaze dwelling on the golden dragon that writhed across its back, the golden dragons on the arms. For ages the kings of Cyrena had ruled from this seat, ruled with honor and chivalry under the dragon. And now Elak remembered how, in Poseidonia, he had felt himself unworthy to mount the throne. Would the fires of Mider slay him if he took his dead brother's place? Silently Elak prayed to his god. "If I'm unworthy," he told Mider, with no thought of irreverence, but as one warrior to another, "then slay me, rather than let the throne be dishonored. Yours is the judgment." He took his place on the dragon throne. Silence fell like a pall on the great room. The faces of the crowd were intent and strained. Lycon's breath came fast. The Druid's hands, hidden under the brown robe, made a quick, furtive gesture; his lips moved without sound. * * * * * Red light flashed out above the throne. Through the room a cry rose and mounted, wordless, fearful. The fires of Mider flamed up in glaring brilliance and cloaked Elak! [Illustration: "Through the room a cry rose and mounted, wordless, fearful."] They hid him in a twisting crimson pall. They swirled about him, blazing with hot radiance.