PEERING through the loophole, Farrell could see the arched niche from whose foot he had been precipitated into the dungeon below. Hassan was again, or perhaps still, at his post. He was veiled, but there was no mistaking the posture and the expression of the eyes.
Sitting cross-legged along the curved wall of the vault were a score of Ismailians in white ceremonial robes. They wore white turbans, scarlet slippers, and belts of the same color: and all were armed with the richly adorned simitars suitable to a formal assembly.
A group of musicians squatted on the floor, along the coping of the circular pool, whose dark water reflected the spectral glow that pervaded the vault. The wind instruments joined the music with a demoniac sobbing and moaning, and a brazen gong clanged.
Four litter-bearers emerged from an entrance. Attendants followed them, bearing tripods of bronze. Farrell shuddered at the similarity of that scene to the horrible beauty of the resurrection of La Dorada. Then he noted that the figure on the litter was that of a man.
As the shroud was lifted, he recognized Shirkuh of the clan of Shadi. The Prior of the Ismailians was to receive the final homage of his subordinates. The pipes wailed mournfully in honor of that desecrator of the dead. Farrell sighed with relief, and glanced at the Marquis.
He peered once more through the loophole.
"Good God!" he gasped in dismay.
Four more litter-bearers were filing into the vault, and after them came attendants with tripods. The tiny feet and the feminine curves that the shroud revealed unmistakably betokened a woman's body.
Farrell's cheeks whitened beneath their stain as he caught the glint of red-gold hair.
An attendant stripped the brocaded shroud from the body.
Antoinette Delatour, sleeping—or dead.
With an inarticulate growl of rage, Farrell gathered himself to charge the door with his shoulder. But the hand of the Marquis gripping his arm restrained him.
"Wait!" whispered the Marquis. "It is hopeless, now. But later—stand fast. I will tell you—you see, I am acquainted"
Farrell stared somberly at his companion. He saw that the Marquis' face was white and that his eyes flamed with wrath. The hand on Farrell's arm trembled.
"All right," he conceded. He wondered at the Marquis' incoherence and agitation in excess of what he would expect of a right-minded gentleman. He gained assurance from the Marquis' apparent knowledge of what was to be; but with it came the dread of some new peak of horror.
"Great God!" muttered Farrell, remembering once more the necromantic ritual at the chateau. "Is she" Then, in a flare of rage and grief, "I'm going through!"
"Restrain yourself!" commanded the Marquis. "I know."
Farrell shook his head, and turned to the loophole.
The attendants and the litter-bearers were filing out of the vault.
The Grand Prior, Hassan, rose from his cushions.
"Brethren and servants of the Seventh Imam," he began, "your Prior, the learned Shirkuh, has crossed the Border. He who could raise the dead can not resurrect himself. But we, inshallah, can send a courier to lead him back to us."
