Then Chick saw that there were two people sitting high on the crest of that cascade.  Wondering, Chick and the rest marched on through the silent crowd; all standing with bared heads and bated breaths.  The worshipping Thomahlians filled every inch of that enormous place.  Only a narrow lane permitted the procession to pass towards that puzzling, silent, black waterfall.

They were almost at its base when Chick saw the vanguard of the Rhamdas unhesitatingly stride straight against the torrent, and then mount upon it.  Up they marched; and Chick knew that the black water was black jade, and that the two people at its crest were seated upon a landing at the top of the grandest stairway he had ever seen.

Up went the Rhamdas deploying to right and left against the silver walls.  The crimson and blue uniformed guards remained behind, lining the lane through the throng.  At the foot of the steps Chick stopped and looked around, and again he felt numb at the sheer vastness of it all.

For he was looking back now at the portal through which the procession had marched; a portal now closed; and above it, covering a great expanse of that wall and extending up almost into the brooding cloud above, was spread a mighty replica of the tri-coloured Sign of the Jarados.

For the first time Chick felt the full significance of symbolism.  Whereas before it had been but an incident of adventure, now it was the symbol of mystic revelation.  It was not only the motif for all other decoration upon the walls and minor elements of the temple; it was the emblem of the trinity, deep, holy, significant of the mystery of the universe and the hereafter.  There was something deeper than mere fatalism; behind all was the fact-rooted faith of a civilisation.

But at that moment, as Chick paused with one foot on the bottom step of the flight, something happened that sent quivers of joy and confidence all through him.  Someone was talking—­talking in English!

Chick looked.  The speaker was a man in the blue garb of the Senestro’s guard.  He was standing at the end of the line nearest the stair, and slightly in front of his fellows.  Like the rest, he was holding his weapon, a black, needled-pointed sword, at the salute.  Chick gave him only a glance, then had the presence of mind to look elsewhere as a man said, in a low, guarded voice: 

“Y’ air right, me lad; don’t look at me.  I know what ye’re thinkin’.  But she ain’t as bad as she looks!  Keep yer heart clear; never fear.  You an’ me can lick all Thomahlia!  Go straight up them stairs, an’ stand that blackguard Senestro on his ’ead, just like y’d do in Frisco!”

“Who are you?” asked Watson, intent upon the great three-leafed clover.  He used the same low, cautious tone the other had employed.  “Who are you, friend?”

“Pat MacPherson, of course,” was the answer.  “An’ Oi’ve said a plenty.  Now, go aboot your business.”