Chick looked. The speaker was a man in the blue garb of the Senestro's guard. He was standing at the end of the line nearest the stair, and slightly in front of his fellows. Like the rest, he was holding his weapon, a black, needled-pointed sword, at the salute. Chick gave him only a glance, then had the presence of mind to look elsewhere as a man said, in a low, guarded voice: “Y' air right, me lad; don't look at me. I know what ye're thinkin'. But she ain't as bad as she looks! Keep yer heart clear; never fear. You an' me can lick all Thomahlia! Go straight up them stairs, an' stand that blackguard Senestro on his 'ead, just like y'd do in Frisco!” “Who are you?” asked Watson, intent upon the great three-leafed clover. He used the same low, cautious tone the other had employed. “Who are you, friend?” “Pat MacPherson, of course,” was the answer. “An' Oi've said a plenty. Now, go aboot your business.” Watson did not quibble. There was no time to learn more. He did not wish it to be noticed; yet he could not hide it from the Jan Lucar and the Rhamda Geos, who were still at his side. They had heard that tongue before. The looks they exchanged told, however, that they were gratified rather than displeased by the interruption. Certainly all feelings of depression left Chick, and he ascended the stairs with a glad heart and a resilient stride that could not but be noticed. He was ready for the Senestro. XLI THE PROPHECY Reaching the top of the jade steps, Chick found the landing to be a great dais, nearly a hundred feet across. On the right and left this dais was hedged in by the silver walls, on each of which was hung a huge, golden scrollwork. These scrolls bore legends, which for the moment Chick ignored. At the rear of the dais was a large object like a bronze bell. The floor was of the usual mosaic, except in the centre, where there was a plain, circular design. Chick took careful note of this, a circle about twenty feet across, as white and unbroken as a bed of frozen snow. Whether it was stone or not he could not determine. All around its edge was a gap that separated it from the dais, a gap several inches across. Chick turned to Geos: “The Spot of Life?” “Even so. It is the strangest thing in all the Thomahlia, my lord. Can you feel it?” For Watson had reached out with his toe and touched the white surface. He drew it back suddenly. “It has a feeling,” he replied, “that I cannot describe. It is cold, and yet it is not. Perhaps it is my own magnetism.” “Ah! It is well, my lord!”