t is it? What have I done--or said?"

He remained silent.

In her sudden distress she leaned forward in her chair, looking into
his face with new solicitude.

"I know--I feel that I have displeased you. Won't you tell me what I
have done?"

As she put the question, she laid one gloved hand upon the table; and
though the Prophet's eyes were fixed upon the Scitsym, he was conscious
in every fibre of the appeal the unstudied gesture made--as he was
poignantly conscious of the clear eyes, the soft dark hair, the
questioning upturned face.

For an interminable time the silence remained unbroken; at last, with a
little sound of fresh distress, Enid bent still nearer.

"Oh, I understand!" she exclaimed. "I understand! You think I have taken
advantage of your goodness. You think I have imagined that, because you
are kind and patient and tolerant, I might look upon you as--as a man."
As she said the word she paused, frightened by her own timidity.

But as suddenly the Prophet wheeled round and laid his fingers over
hers. The pressure of his hand was like steel, the expression of his
face was altered and disturbed.

"If you only knew--" he said, sharply--"if you only knew how I have
longed to hear you say just that one word _man_!" He paused almost
triumphantly, his eyes searching her frightened face, his fingers
gripping hers.

For an instant she sat petrified and fascinated; then a faint sound of
alarm escaped her, and she turned towards the door.

Without the formality of the announcing gong, two men had entered the
room, and stood silent spectators of the tableau. One was Devereaux, the
Precursor; the other was Horatio Bale-Corphew.

For one embarrassed moment all four looked at each other; then the
Precursor hastened to save the situation. He made a long, profound
obeisance, and stepped deferentially to the table.

"Your pardon, Master!" he murmured. "We knew not that the immutable
Soul was speaking from within you, calling one among us towards the
Light!" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where the massive form
and agitated face of Bale-Corphew was framed in the doorway.

At his peremptory look the Arch-Mystic seemed to gather himself
together. Stepping forward, he made a slightly tardy reverence.

"Master," he said, huskily, "what the Precursor tells you is the truth.
Seeing the threshold unguarded, we concluded that the audiences for the
day were over." His prominent brown eyes were filled with conf