Lincoln appeared before him, went down heavily again with a blow under the point of the jaw and lay still.  Graham made two strides, stumbled.  And then Ostrog’s arm was round his neck, he was pulled over backward, fell heavily, and his arms were pinned to the ground.  After a few violent efforts he ceased to struggle and lay staring at Ostrog’s heaving throat.

“You—­are—­a prisoner,” panted Ostrog, exulting.  “You—­were rather a fool—­to come back.”

Graham turned his head about and perceived through the irregular green window in the walls of the hall the men who had been working the building cranes gesticulating excitedly to the people below them.  They had seen!

Ostrog followed his eyes and started.  He shouted something to Lincoln, but Lincoln did not move.  A bullet smashed among the mouldings above the Atlas.  The two sheets of transparent matter that had been stretched across this gap were rent, the edges of the torn aperture darkened, curved, ran rapidly towards the framework, and in a moment the Council chamber stood open to the air.  A chilly gust blew in by the gap, bringing with it a war of voices from the ruinous spaces without, an elvish babblement, “Save the Master!” “What are they doing to the Master?” “The Master is betrayed!”

And then he realised that Ostrog’s attention was distracted, that Ostrog’s grip had relaxed, and, wrenching his arms free, he struggled to his knees.  In another moment he had thrust Ostrog back, and he was on one foot, his hand gripping Ostrog’s throat, and Ostrog’s hands clutching the silk about his neck.

But now men were coming towards them from the dais—­men whose intentions he misunderstood.  He had a glimpse of someone running in the distance towards the curtains of the antechamber, and then Ostrog had slipped from him and these newcomers were upon him.  To his infinite astonishment, they seized him.  They obeyed the shouts of Ostrog.

He was lugged a dozen yards before he realised that they were not friends—­that they were dragging him towards the open panel.  When he saw this he pulled back, he tried to fling himself down, he shouted for help with all his strength.  And this time there were answering cries.

The grip upon his neck relaxed, and behold! in the lower corner of the rent upon the wall, first one and then a number of little black figures appeared shouting and waving arms.  They came leaping down from the gap into the light gallery that had led to the Silent Rooms.  They ran along it, so near were they that Graham could see the weapons in their hands.  Then Ostrog was shouting in his ear to the men who held him, and once more he was struggling with all his strength against their endeavours to thrust him towards the opening that yawned to receive him.  “They can’t come down,” panted Ostrog.  “They daren’t fire.  It’s all right.  We’ll save him from them yet.”

For long minutes as it seemed to Graham that inglorious struggle continued.  His clothes were rent in a dozen places, he was covered in dust, one hand had been trodden upon.  He could hear the shouts of his supporters, and once he heard shots.  He could feel his strength giving way, feel his efforts wild and aimless.  But no help came, and surely, irresistibly, that black, yawning opening came nearer.