Whereupon Watson learned something rather peculiar. It seemed that the princes of D'Hartia had always married the queens. This Senestro had had a brother, but he died. And in such an event it was the iron custom that the surviving brother marry both queens. It had happened only once before in all history; but the precedent was unbreakable. “Then, there is nothing against it?” “Nothing; except, perhaps the prophecy of the Jarados. We now know--the whole world knows--that we are fast approaching the Day of Life.” “Of course; the Day of Life.” Watson decided upon another chance shot. “It has to do with the marriage of the two queens!” “You DO know!” cried the Rhamda joyously. “Tell me!” “No; it is I who am asking the questions.” Watson's mind was working like lightning. Whether it was the influence of the strange drink, or the equally strange influence of ordinary inspiration, he was never more self-assured in his life. It seemed a day for taking long chances. “Tell me,” he inquired, “what has the Day of Life to do with the two queens and their betrothal?” The Rhamda throttled his eagerness. “It is one of the obscure points of the prophecy. There are some scholars who hold that such a problem as this presages the coming of the end and the advent of the chosen. But others oppose this interpretation, for reasons purely material: for if the Bar Senestro should marry both queens it would make him the sole ruler of the Thomahlia. Only once before have we had a single ruler; for centuries upon centuries we have had two queens; one of the D'Hartians, and the other of the Kospians, enthroned here in the Mahovisal.” Watson would have liked to learn far more. But the time seemed one for action on his part; bold action, and positive. “Rhamda Geos--I do not know what is your version of the prophecy. But you are positive that no one preceded me out of the Spot?” “I am. Why do you persist?” “Because”--speaking slowly and with the greatest care--“because there was one greater than I, who came before me!” The Rhamda rose excitedly to his feet, and then sank back into his chair again. In his eyes was nothing save eagerness, wonder and respect. He leaned forward. “Who was it? Who was he?” Watson's voice was steady as stone. “The great Jarados himself!” XXXIII A LONG WAY FROM SHORE Once more Watson had taken the kind of chance he preferred--a slender one. He took the chance that these people, however occult and advanced they might be, were still human enough to build their prophecy out of an old foundation. If he were right, then the person of the Jarados would be inviolable. If the professor were prisoner, held somewhere in secret, and it got noised about that he was the true prophet returned--it would not only give Holcomb immense prestige, but at the same time render the position of his captors untenable.