As the shroud was lifted, he recognized Shirkuh of the clan of Shadi. The Prior of the Ismailians was to receive the final homage of his subordinates. The pipes wailed mournfully in honor of that desecrator of the dead. Farrell sighed with relief, and glanced at the Marquis. He peered once more through the loophole. "Good God!" he gasped in dismay. Four more litter-bearers were filing into the vault, and after them came attendants with tripods. The tiny feet and the feminine curves that the shroud revealed unmistakably betokened a woman's body. Farrell's cheeks whitened beneath their stain as he caught the glint of red-gold hair. An attendant stripped the brocaded shroud from the body. Antoinette Delatour, sleeping--or dead. With an inarticulate growl of rage, Farrell gathered himself to charge the door with his shoulder. But the hand of the Marquis gripping his arm restrained him. "Wait!" whispered the Marquis. "It is hopeless, now. But later--stand fast. I will tell you--you see, I am acquainted----" Farrell stared somberly at his companion. He saw that the Marquis' face was white and that his eyes flamed with wrath. The hand on Farrell's arm trembled. "All right," he conceded. He wondered at the Marquis' incoherence and agitation in excess of what he would expect of a right-minded gentleman. He gained assurance from the Marquis' apparent knowledge of what was to be; but with it came the dread of some new peak of horror. "Great God!" muttered Farrell, remembering once more the necromantic ritual at the château. "Is she----" Then, in a flare of rage and grief, "I'm going through!" "Restrain yourself!" commanded the Marquis. "I know." Farrell shook his head, and turned to the loophole. The attendants and the litter-bearers were filing out of the vault. The Grand Prior, Hassan, rose from his cushions. "Brethren and servants of the Seventh Imam," he began, "your Prior, the learned Shirkuh, has crossed the Border. He who could raise the dead can not resurrect himself. But we, _inshallah_, can send a courier to lead him back to us." As his upraised hand dropped to his side, a monstrous peal of bronze echoed and reverberated through the vault. The assembled Ismailians stirred, and corrected their posture, so that their feet and hands were placed with ritual precision. Even their features assumed a oneness of expression: an intent, solemn stare. The silence became absolute. The musicians sat motionless, awaiting the signal to sound off. The Grand Prior nodded.