On the one side the line was blue, on the other crimson; they were guards. And where the various avenues intersected cables must have been stretched; for these streets were packed and jammed with a surging multitude, which the guards seemed engaged in holding back. As far up the avenues as Chick could see, the seething mass of fellow creatures extended, a gently pulsing vari-coloured potential commotion. As he looked one of the packed streets broke into confusion. He could see the guards wheeling and running into formation; from behind, other platoons rushed up reinforcements. The great crowd was rolling forward, breaking on the edge of the spear-armed guards like the surf of a rolling sea. Chick had a sudden thought. Were they not looking up at his window? He could glimpse arms uplifted and hands pointed. Even the guards, those held in reserve, looked up. Then--such was the distance--the rumble of the mob reached his ears; at the same time, spreading like a grass fire, the commotion broke out in another street, to another and another, until the air was filled with the new undertone of countless human tongues. Chick was fascinated. The thing was over-strange. While he looked and listened the whole scene turned to conflict; the voice of the throng became ominous. The guards still held the cables, still beat back the populace. Could they hold out, wondered Chick idly; and what was it all about? Something touched his shoulder. He wheeled. One of the tall, red-uniformed guards was standing beside him. Watson instinctively drew back, and as he did so the other stepped forward, touched the snap, and closed the window. “What's the idea? I was just getting interested!” The soldier nodded pleasantly, respectfully--reverently. “Orders from below, my lord. Were you to remain at that window it would take all the guards in the Mahovisal to keep back the Thomahlians.” “Why?” Chick was astonished. “There are a million pilgrims in the city, my lord, who have waited months for just one glimpse of you.” Watson considered. This was a new and a dazing aspect of the affair. Evidently the expression on his face told the soldier that some explanation would not be amiss. “The pilgrims are almost innumerable, my lord. They are all of the one great faith. They are, my lord, the true believers, the believers in the Day.” The Day! Instantly Watson recalled Senestro's use of the expression. He sensed a valuable clue. He caught and held the soldier's eye. “Tell me,” commanded Chick. “What is this Day of which you speak!” XXXVI AN ALLY, AND SOLID GROUND The soldier replied unhesitatingly: “It is the Day of Life, my lord. Others call it the 'first of the Sixteen Days.' Still others, simply the Day of the Prophet, or Jarados.” “When will it be?”