gripped hard upon the rail on which his hand
rested. "A child's trick it was, but the Southlanders are men of smooth
tongue and our brothers were encumbered with the cattle and perhaps
overconfident now that their faces were turned at last towards home.
Six-score brave men"--he stopped and swallowed at something in his
throat.

"The ambuscade was well-planned, and the Southlanders had enlisted the
aid of the Painted Men, to their shame be it said. So our brethren found
themselves hemmed in at every point. Yet they sold their lives at a
good price, and they are mourning to-day in the Southland, even as we
here. Not a Doomsman set out upon his long journey to the shadowland but
that a Southron was forced to bear him company. It was well done--a good
fight, the sword-point driven home, and then the dropping of the
curtain. Hail! a hail! to our brothers who have passed beyond."

A few wavering and uncertain voices took up the cry, but it quickly died
away before the uplifted hand of Prosper, the priest. He had pushed his
way through the crowd and was now standing in its outmost rank directly
opposite the platform.

"There were six-score who rode away," he said, addressing himself
directly to Quinton Edge. "Six-score, and how many have returned?"

An insolent question in the manner of its asking, but the Doomsman's
answer matched it well.

"Four that I counted, but there may be a straggler or two to come in
later. Does the Shining One no longer know where his own thunderbolts
have struck, that he sends his hired servants to gather up the gossip of
the market-place?"

"The All-Wise both sees and knows," retorted the priest. "It is the
people you deceive who have need to look and listen, if haply they may
understand. You have dared to take the name of the Shining One upon your
lips; stand forth now like a man, if you would face him in his wrath."

During the past few minutes it had grown suddenly dark; the sun had
disappeared and a curtain of opaque cloud was rapidly overcasting the
sky; a peculiar, yellowish light had replaced the radiance of day.

"And what does your god demand that his anger may be turned away?" asked
Quinton Edge. "Doubtless the daily offerings upon which his faithful
priests depend for their easy, unearned living. Sides of fat beeves and
measures of wheat, not forgetting a cask or two of apple-wine or corn
brandy."

But the priest, disdaining to answer the taunt, had turned and was
speaking di