The brief struggle that ensued taught him that he need expect no easy conquest.  The Jan was quick, active and the possessor of a science peculiarly effective.  The Thomahlians did not box in the manner of the Anglo-Saxons; their mode was peculiar.  Chick foresaw that he would be compelled to combine the methods of three kinds of combat:  boxing, ju-jitsu, and the good old catch-as-catch-can wrestling.  If the Senestro were superior to the Jan, he would have a time indeed.  Though Watson conquered, he could not but concede that the Jan was not only clever but scientific to an oily, bewildering degree.  The Lucar paused.

“Enough, my lord!  You are a man indeed.  Do not overdo; save yourself for the Senestro.”

Clothes were brought, and Chick taken back to his apartment.  The time passed with Rhamdas constantly at his side.

The Geos was not present, nor the little queen.  Chick sought permission to sit by the window—­permission that was granted after the guards had placed screens that would withhold any view from outside, yet permit Chick to look out.

As far as he could see, the avenues were packed with people.  Only, this time the centres of the streets were clear; on the curbs he could see the opposing lines of the blue and crimson, holding back the waiting thousands.  In the distance he could hear chimes, faint but distinct, like silver bells tinkling over water.

At intervals rose strange choruses of weird, holy music.  The full sweep of the city’s domes and minarets was spread out before him.  From eaves to basements the rolling luxuriance of orchidian beauty; banners, music, parade; a day of pageant, pomp, and fulfilment.

He could catch the excitement in the air, the strange, laden undercurrent of spiritual salvation-something esoteric, undefinable, the ecstasy of a million souls pulsing to the throb of a supreme moment.  He drew back, someone had touched him.

“What is it?”

It was one of the Rhamdas.  He had in his hand a small metal clover, of the design of the Jarados.

“What do I do?” asked Watson.

“This,” said the Rhamda, “was sent to you by one of the Bars.”

“By a Bar!  What does it mean?”

The other shook his head.  “It was sent to you by one who wished it to be known by us that he is your friend, even though a Bar.”

Just then Watson noted something sticking out of the edge of one of the clover leaves.  He pulled it out.  It was a piece of paper.  On it were scrawled words in English.

The writing was pencil script, done in a poor hand and ill-spelled, but still English.  Chick read: 

“Be of good cheer; there ain’t a one in this world that can top a lad from Frisco.  And it’s Pat MacPherson that says it.  Yer the finest laddie that ever got beyond the old Witch of Endor.  You and me, if we hold on, is just about goin’ to play hell with the haythen.  Hold on and fight like the divil!  Remember that Pat is with ye!