of the Chiefs and of some of the elder Initiates, who were probably aware of the nature of the scene to follow, was an expression of calm but deep pain and regret; crossed now and then by a shade of anxiety, such as rarely appeared in that abode of assured peace and profound security.  On no countenance was visible the slightest shadow of restlessness or curiosity.  In the changed aspect of the place, the changed tone of its associations and of the feelings habitual to its frequenters, there was something which impressed and overawed the petulance of youth, and even the indifference of an experience like my own.  At last, stretching forth the ivory-like staff of mingled white and red, which on this occasion each of the Chiefs had substituted for their usual crystal wand, Esmo spoke, not raising his voice a single semitone above its usual pitch, but with even unwonted gravity—­

“Come forward, Asco Zvelta!” he said.

The sight I now witnessed, no description could represent to one who had not seen the same.  Parting the drapery at the lower end, there came forward a figure in which the most absolutely inexperienced eye could not fail to recognise a culprit called to trial.  “Came forward,” I have said, because I can use no other words.  But such was not the term which would have occurred to any one who witnessed the movement.  “Was dragged forward,” I should say, did I attempt to convey the impression produced;—­save that no compulsion, no physical force was used, nor were there any to use it.  And yet the miserable man approached slowly, reluctantly, shrinking back as one who strives with superior corporeal power exerted to force him onward, as if physically dragged on step by step by invisible bonds held by hands unseen.  So with white face and shaking form he reached the barrier, and knelt as Esmo rose from his place, honouring instinctively, though his eyes seemed incapable of discerning them, the symbols of supreme authority.  Then, at a silent gesture, he rose and fell back into the chair placed for him, apparently unable to stand and scarcely able to sustain himself on his seat.

“Brother,” said the junior of the Chiefs, or he who occupied the place farthest to the right;—­and now I noticed that eleven were present, the last seat on the right of him who spoke being vacant—­“you have unveiled to strangers the secrets of the Shrine.”

He paused for an answer; and, in a tone strangely unnatural and expressionless, came from the scarcely parted lips of the culprit the reply—­”

“It is true.”

“You have,” said the next of the Chiefs, “accepted reward to place the lives of your brethren at the mercy of their enemies.”

“It is true.”

“You have,” said he who occupied the lowest seat upon the left, “forsworn in heart and deed, if not in word, the vows by which you willingly bound yourself, and the law whose boons you had accepted.”

Again the same confession, forced evidently by some overwhelming power from one who would, if he could, have denied or remained silent.