When their eyes met, Chick caught the magnetic current of personality, the same sense of illusiveness that he and Harry Wendel had noted in the Nervina; only here it was negative, resisting instead of aiding.  A number of the blue guard surrounded the throne, their faces dark, strong, and of unconquerable resolution, though slow to think.

On the other throne was a girl.  Chick had heard enough from the Geos to guess her identity:  one of the queens, the Aradna; frail, delicate, a blue-eyed maiden, with a waving mass of straw-gold hair hanging loosely about her shoulders.  She too was classically attired, although there were touches of modernity here and there in the arrangement of ribbons; the garment matched her guards’ crimson, and was draped about her shoulders so as to leave one bare, together with that arm.  Across her forehead was a band of dark-blue gems, and she wore no other jewels.

She was not more than seventeen or eighteen, with eyes like bluebells, lips as red as poppies, features that danced with delight and laughter and all the innocence that one would associate with elfin royalty.  Instinctively Chick compared her with the Nervina.

The senior queen had the subtle magnetism, the uncountable fascination, the poise and decision that held and dictated all things to her fancy.

Not so the Aradna.  Hers was the strength of simplicity, the frank, open delight of the maiden, and at the same time all the charm and suggestion of coming womanhood.  When she caught Watson’s eye she smiled; a smile free and unrestrained, out of an open, happy heart.  She made a remark to one of her guards, who nodded a reply after the manner of a friend, rather than a courtier.

Watson turned to the Geos, who stood somewhat to one side, and a little to the rear.

“The Aradna?”

“Yes.  The queen of D’Hartia.  The man on the other side is the Bar Senestro.”

Whatever feeling Chick entertained for the one was offset by what he felt for the other.  He was between two forces; his instinct warned him of the Bar, sceptical, powerful, ruthless, a man to be reckoned with; but his better nature went out to the young queen.

At a motion from Geos, the whole assembly of Rhamdas stood up.  The action was both dignified and reverent.  Though Chick was, in their eyes, a miracle, there was no unseemly staring nor jarring of curiosity; all was quietness, ease, poise; the only sound was that of the constant subtle music of those invisible bells.

Rhamda Geos began speaking.  At the same time he placed a friendly hand on Watson’s shoulder, a signal for every other Rhamda to resume his seat.

“The Fact and the Substance, my brothers.”

Geos paused as he made use of the ultra-significant phrase.  And then, in a few rapid sentences, he ran over the synopsis of that affair, beginning with some philosophy and other details that Watson could only half understand, making frequent allusions to the Jarados and other writers of prophecy; then he made some mention of his own particular brand of spiritism and its stand on materialisation.  This he followed with an account of the finding of Watson in the temple, his long sleep and ultimate reviving.  At greater length he repeated the gist of their conversation.