They contemplated their Prince, stared in wonder at the onyx blackness of his lean, aquiline features: the predatory nose and hard mouth of one whose iron soul has experienced everything save submission. But the eyes were sightless and blank. "He breathes," murmured an adept. "That is but the final trace of life the conqueror could not quite extinguish," explained Zantut. "And it is that trace which we must fan into full flame tonight. At each former meeting, Abdemon has failed; and this is his last chance. And we know best what this last chance is worth! "Talaat! Saoud! Ismail! Go up and get the girl, and Abdemon also. And tell Ibrahaim that when the comrades from Azerbaijan arrive, they are to descend at once. The hour is close at hand." "Harkening and obedience, _saidi_," replied Talaat, bowing first to the Dark Presence on the throne, and then to Zantut. From the dim shadows of the hall, Zantut and the two remaining adepts dragged forth a great block of chiseled porphyry, which they slid readily enough across the polished tiles to a position exactly in front of the throne. Zantut then plucked from five of the tiles the pentagonal silver plates with which they were inlaid, uncovering orifices that led to unplumbed depths beneath that subterranean hall. An adept, standing by, presented with ceremonious gestures a small glazed flask which Zantut with gestures equally formal accepted. As he unstoppered the flask, acrid, resinous, violet-colored fumes rose from its mouth. The adepts knelt as Zantut paced about the ominous block of porphyry, pausing at each of the five holes in the floor to pour into the depths a portion of the fuming contents of the flask. Then a faint humming was heard, which in a few moments became a steady throbbing as of a slowly beaten drum: and tall, slender threads of violet flame rose from the openings in the floor. At Zantut's signal, the torches were extinguished. "They are here, Master," whispered the adept at the right of the altar. Zantut turned to face the entrance of the hall. The acolytes were bringing in the veiled Azizah, and Rankin, securely bound. "Lay them on the altar," commanded Zantut. The deep resonance of a brazen gong rang down the succession of winding stairways, and rolled and thundered in the vaulted holy of holies. "The hour is at hand," proclaimed Zantut solemnly. And then, to those who had carried Azizah and Rankin into the sanctuary: "The brethren from Azerbaijan are late. Did you see any signs of them?" "Yes, _saidi_. And Ibrahaim up there is watching the star of our Lord very closely so as to withhold the final signal until the very last moment. He will strike two warning taps. And then the third, to let you know that the moment has arrived. But they heard the first stroke, and are riding hard to get here in time."