By craning his neck over the shoulders of those in front of him--a procedure which, because of his small stature, involved some rather precarious teetering on tip-toe--he could see across the square. It was surrounded on all four sides by houses and shops, but the street which opened upon it directly opposite him was a wide one. Through it he saw a feature of the city which the close-grouped overhanging houses had hidden before--a feature which put the finishing touch upon the sense of unreality and brought back once more the suggestion of a vast set for a Merrie-England movie by a bad director. It was a castle. Furthermore it was twice as big as any real castle ever was, and its architecture was totally out of the period of the town below it. It was out of any period. It was a modernist's dream, a Walter Gropius design come alive. The rectangular façade and flanking square pylons were vaguely reminiscent of an Egyptian temple of Amenhotep IV's time, but the whole was of bluely gleaming metal, shimmering smoothly in the even glare of the sky. From the flat summits floated scarlet banners bearing an unreadable device. A clustered group of these pennons before the castle seemed to be moving, and by stretching his neck almost to the snapping point Hugh could see that they were being carried by horsemen who were coming slowly down the road. Ahead of them came the trumpeters, who were now entering the square, sounding their atonal tocsin. Now the trumpeters passed abreast of him, and the crowd made a lane to let them through. Next came the bearers of the standards, two by two, holding their horses' heads high. A group of richly dressed but ruffianly retainers followed them. The whole affair reminded Hugh of a racketeer's funeral in Chicago's prohibition days. Finally came the sedan chair which bore the royal couple--and Dr. Hugh Tracy at last lost hold of his sanity. For beside the aloof, hated Yero-Jeremy in the palanquin was Evelyn Tracy. When Hugh came back to his senses he was shouting unintelligible epithets, and several husky townsmen were holding his arms. "Easy, Bud," one of them hissed into his ear. "Haven't you ever seen him before?" Hugh forced himself back to a semblance of calmness, and had sense enough to say nothing of Evelyn. "Who--what is he?" he gasped. The other looked at him tensely for a moment, then, reassured, let go of him. "That's Yero. He's called many names, but the most common is The Enemy. Better get used to seeing him. You can't help hating him, but it'll do you no good to fly off the handle like that." "You mean everybody hates him?" The townsman frowned. "Why, certainly. He's The Enemy." "Then why don't you throw him out?" "Well--" The other burgher, who had said nothing thus far, broke in: "Presenuk prajolik solda, soldama mera per ladsua hrutkal; per stanisch felemetskje droschnovar." "Exactly," said the other man. "You okay now, Bud?" "Ulp," Hugh said. "Yes, I'm all right."