way; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, up
the long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under their
hollowed hands. Would they never come!

With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litter
issued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking that
great head with its mane of coarse, white hair--the old Dom Gillian.
With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting the
unwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The people
looked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance of
their lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard his
people; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon the
arms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood on
either hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed to
collapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.

Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed the
zenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-line
rested a cloud in bigness like to a man's hand and of the blackness of
night itself. Would they never come!

Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against the
snowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figure
of a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of the
slippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowd
pressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops falling
from his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform.
And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from the
saddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still slept
placidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.

XVIII

A PROPHET OF EVIL

Standing at Dom Gillian's side Quinton Edge bent down and whispered a
few words in his ear, inaudible even to those who stood nearest. And yet
the people knew that woe had fallen upon Doom. Like flame upon flax the
voiceless signal leaped from heart to heart; here and there in the crowd
appeared little centres of disturbance, the strong pushing the weak
forcibly aside that they might the quicker fill their own gasping lungs;
an inarticulate murmur rose and swelled, like to the stirring of forest
leaves under the breath of the rough north wind. Quinton Edge heard, and
turned to face the people.

"It is true," he said, and