"You may wreck the pyramid," said Phorenice contemptuously.
"I myself have some knowledge of the earth forces, as I have shown

this night. But though you crumble every stone above us now and
grind it into grit and dust, I shall still be Empress. What force

can you crazy priests bring against me that I cannot throw back and
destroy?"

"We have a weapon that was forged in no mortal smithy,"
shrilled the old man, "whereof the key is now lodged in the Ark of

the Mysteries. But that weapon can be used only as a last
resource. The nature of it even is too awful to be told in words.

Our other powers will be launched against you first, and for this
poor country's sake I pray that they may cause you to wince. Yet

rest assured, Phorenice, that we shall not step aside once we have
put a hand to this matter. We shall carry it through, even though

the cost be a universal burning and destruction. For know this,
daughter of the swineherd, it is agreed amongst the most High Gods

that you are too full of sin to continue unchecked."
"Speak him fairly," Ylga urged from behind. "He has a power

at which you cannot even guess."
The Empress made to rise, but Ylga clung to her skirt. "For

the sake of your fame," she urged, "for the sake of your life, do
not defy him." But Phorenice struck her fiercely aside, and faced

the old man in a tumult of passion. "You dare call me a
blasphemer, who blaspheme yourself? You dare cast slurs upon my

birth, who am come direct from the most high Heaven? Old man, your
craziness protects you in part, but not in all. You shall be

whipped. Do you hear me? I say, whipped. The lean flesh shall be
scourged from your scraggy bones, and you shall totter away from

this place as a red and bleeding example for those who would dare
traduce their Empress. Here, some of you, I say, take that man,

and let him be whipped where he stands."
Her cry went out clearly enough. But not a soul amongst those

glittering feasters stirred in his place. Not a soldier amongst
the guards stepped from his rank. The place was hung in a terrible

silence. It seemed as though no one within the hall dared so much
as to draw a breath. All felt that the very air was big with fate.

Phorenice, with her head crouched forward, looked from one
group to another. Her face was working. "Have I no true

servants," she asked, "amongst all you pretty lip-servers?"
Still no one moved. They stood, or sat, or crouched like

people fascinated. For myself, with the first words he had
uttered, I had recognized the old man by his voice. It was Zaemon,

the weak governor who had given the Empress her first step towards
power; that earnest searcher into the mysteries, who knew more of

their powers, and more about the hidden forces, than any other
dweller on the Sacred Mountain, even at that time when I left for

my colony. And now, during his strange hermit life, how much more
might he not have learned? I was torn by warring duties. I owed

much to the Priests' Clan, by reason of my oath and membership; it
seemed I owed no less to Phorenice. And, again, was Zaemon the

truly accredited envoy of the high council of the priests of the
Sacred Mountain? And was the Empress of a truth deposed by the

High Gods above, or was she still Empress, and still the commander
of my duty? I could not tell, and so I sat in my seat awaiting

what the event would sow.
Phorenice's fury was growing. "Do I stand alone here?" she

cried. "Have I pampered you creatures out of all touch with
gratitude? It seems that at last I want a new chief to my guards.

Ho! Who will be chief of the guards of the Empress?"
There was a shifting of eyes, a hesitation. Then a great

burly form strode up from the farther end of the hall, and a
perceptible shudder went up from all the others as they watched

him.
"So, Tarca, you prefer to take the risks, and remain chief of

the guard yourself?" she said with an angry scoff. "Truly there
did not seem to be many thrusting forward to strip you of the

office. I shall have a fine sorting up of places in payment for
this night's work. But for the present, Tarca, do your duty."

The man came up, obviously timorous. He was a solidly made
fellow, but not altogether unmartial, and though but little of his

cheek showed above his decorated beard, I could see that he paled
as he came near to the priest. "My lord," he said quietly, "I must

ask you to come with me."
"Stand aside," said the old man, thrusting out the Symbol in

front of him. I could see his eyes gather on the soldier and his
brows knit with a strain of will.

Tarca saw this too, and I thought he would have fallen, but
with an effort he kept his manhood, and doggedlyrepeated his

summons. "I must obey the command of my mistress, and I would have
you remember, my lord, that I am but a servant. You must come with

me to the whip."
"I warn you!" cried the old man. "Stand from out of my path,

you!"
It must have been with the courage of desperation that the

soldier dared to use force. But the hand he stretched out dropped
limply back to his side the moment it touched the old man's bare

shoulder, as though it had been struck by some shock. He seemed
almost to have expected some such repulse; yet when he picked up

that hand with the other, and looked at it, and saw its whiteness,
he let out of him a yell like a wounded beast. "Oh, Gods!" he

cried. "Not that. Spare me!"
But Zaemon was glowering at him still. A twitching seized the

man's face, and he put up his sound hand to it and plucked at his
beard, which was curled and plaited after the new fashion of the

day. A woman standing near screamed as the half of the beard came
off in his fingers. Beneath was silver whiteness over half his

face. Zaemon had smitten him with a sudden leprosy that was past
cure.

Yet the punishment was not ended even then. Other twitchings
took him on other parts of the body, and he tore off his armour and

his foppish clothes, and always where the bare flesh showed, there
had the horridplague written its white mark; and in the end, being

able to endure no more, the man fell to the pavement and lay there
writhing.

Zaemon said no further word. He lifted the Symbol before him,
set his eyes on the farther door of the banqueting-hall and walked

for it directly, all those in his path shrinking away from him with
open shudders. And through the valves of the door he passed out of

our sight, still wordless, still unchecked.
I glanced up at Phorenice. The loveliness of her face was

drawn and haggard. It was the first great reverse, this, she had
met with in all her life, and the shock of it, and the vision of

what might follow after, dazed her. Alas, if she could only have
guessed at a tenth of the terrors which the future had in its womb,

Atlantis might have been saved even then.
6. THE BITERS OF THE CITY WALLS

Here then was the manner of my reception back in the capital
of Atlantis, and some first glimpse at her new policies. I freely

confess to my own inaction and limpness; but it was all deliberate.
The old ties of duty seemed lost, or at least merged in one

another. Beforetime, to serve the king was to serve the Clan of
the Priests, from which he had been chosen, and whose head he

constituted. But Phorenice was self-made, and appeared to be a
rule unto herself; if Zaemon was to be trusted, he was the

mouthpiece of the Priests, and their Clan had set her at defiance;
and how was a mere honest man to choose on the instant between the

two?
But cold argument told me that governments were set up for the

good of the country at large, and I said to myself that there would
be my choice. I must find out which rule promised best of