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 doggedly repeated 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 horrid
plague 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 lov