The door opened.  The guards halted.  Geos stepped aside with a bow, and Watson strode forward into the presence of the Council of the Rhamdas.

XXXIV

THE BAR SENESTRO

It was a critical moment for Chick.  Out of the impulse of his inner nature he had chosen the odds that he must now uphold against the combined wisdom of these intellectuals.  He was alone, with no one to guide him save Geos, who undoubtedly was his friend, but who as undoubtedly would desert him upon the slightest inkling of imposture.

He found himself in a great, round room, or rather an oval one, domed at the top but tinted in a far more beautiful colouring—­ lazuli blue.  The walls were cut by long, narrow windows reaching far up into the sweep where the side melted into the ceiling.  The material of the windows was of the same translucent substance already noted, but slightly tinged with green, so that they shed a soft light, cooled and quiet, over the whole assembly.

On the wall opposite the doorway was a large replica of the clover-leaf design outside, even more gem-like in brilliance; its three colours woven into a trinity almost of flame.  Whether the light was artificial or intrinsic, Chick could not say.  The floor of the place accommodated some three hundred tables, of the library type, and the same number of men bearing the distinguished stamp of the Rhamda.  All were smooth-shaven, comparatively tall, and possessing the same aesthetic manner which impressed one with the notion of inherited, inherent culture.  The entire hall had the atmosphere of learning, justice and the supreme tribunal.

For a moment Watson felt weak and uncertain.  He could hold up against Geos and Avec, but in the face of such an array he wasn’t so sure.  There was but one thing to encourage him; the faces into which he looked.  All were full of wonder and reverence.

Then he looked about him more carefully.  He had come out upon a wide platform, or rostrum.  He now noticed that he was flanked on either side by thrones—­two of them; they seemed made of golden amber.  The one on the right was occupied by a man, the other by a woman.  In the pause that was vouchsafed him Chick took note of these two, and wondered.

In the first place, the man was not a Rhamda.  The jewelled semi-armour that he wore was more significant than the dignified garb of the Intellectuals; at the same time, his accoutrements cheapened him, by contrast.  He was executive, princely, with the bearing that comes of worldly ambitions and attainments; a man strangely handsome, vital, athletic; curling hair, dark, quick eyes and even features; except only for the mouth he might have been taken as a model of the Greek Alexander.

The clothes he wore were classic, as was everything else about him, even to his sandals, his bare arms and his jewelled breastplate.

Watson had studied history.  He had a quick impression of a composite—­of genius, cruelty and sensuality.  Here was one with three strong natures, a sort of Nero, Caligula and Alexander combined:  the sensuality of the first, the cruelty of the second, and the instinctive fire and greatness of the immortal Macedonian.  The man was smiling; not an amused smile, but one of interest, humorous tolerance.