rs
and gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering on
the hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle upon
which he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under the
cheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire and
sat down to seriously consider his future course of action. The
situation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?

In the first place, here was this tremendous power whose secret he alone
possessed; the day and hour might even now be at hand when he should be
able to wrest this superior knowledge to advantage.

Secondly, there was the question of personal safety, and assuredly it
would be to his interest to be numbered among the accredited servants of
the Shining One. The people might have grown indifferent to the worship
of their ancient gods, but superstition still counselled an outward
measure of respect towards those who wore the priestly garb. Finally,
there was the pressing necessity of putting food into his mouth, a
commonplace but still cogent consideration. Constans had been living on
short rations now for a week past, his provisions were just about
exhausted, and the prospects for the future had caused him no little
anxiety. In the service of the Shining One he would at least be fed. So
he resolved to accept the issue that had been forced upon him: he had
passed his word, and he would keep it until destiny itself absolved him.

Several days later Constans adventured forth, making directly for the
Citadel Square and from thence into the Palace Road. His official garb,
a long black soutane and hood, was a tolerable disguise in itself, while
the emblem of the forked lightning, worked in gold thread upon his left
sleeve, vouched for his sacerdotal character as a member of the
inferior priesthood. The Doomsmen whom he encountered looked at him
with indifference, a very few saluted him with a perfunctory respect. It
was plain that his appearance awakened neither interest nor distrust,
and during the course of his walk he was enabled to add materially to
his stock of knowledge about the city and its defences.

Half way down the Palace Road he overtook a man, a squat,
broad-shouldered fellow, who limped as he walked. Constans would have
brushed by, but the man plucked at his sleeve, and he was forced to stop
and accommodate his pace to that of his interlocutor. A disagreeable
appearing personage, with a crafty face