nusian in the great hall, was the very picture of amazement.
Also, I had seen him give Henry Quainfan, and so had the queen, several looks in which shone unbridled malignancy.
"I had seen him," I told her. "I had seen and recognized Ta Antom. One does not easily forget old friends."
"Especially," Henry added, "friends so deeply interested in one's spiritual welfare, with so ardent a desire to raise one's soul above the sordid things of the earth."
Draconda smiled a little at this inimitable wit of ours, but she made no answer.
That troubled look had not left her eyes, which returned to the lowering face of The Wolf.
"And we have forgotten to thank you, O Draconda," I said, "for rescuing us from that tomb chamber. To you we owe it that we are not lying there in that mountain blackness. To you we owe our lives; and, if ever the time comes when we can repay the debt we owe you—"
"You owe me no debt," she interrupted me in a voice somewhat absent. "But perchance that time you have in mind will come sooner than—what am I saying? Do not, I pray you, talk of thanks to me, who am made inexpressibly happy by your coming. 'Tis I that thank God in heaven that you were saved!"
And she sent a shy glance in Henry's direction, a glance that made me wince and the blood hiss in my ears as a serpent hisses, that made The Wolf's dark face grow darker still and the lovely Mynine's visible hand clench so that the pretty knuckles became livid spots.
"So talk not of thanks to me, O Farnermain," the queen went on. "And now let us leave this room, so that we can have where to sit, to talk without having all these staring eyes upon us; and truly you have much to tell me."
"Not so much, I fancy, O Draconda, as you have to tell us. And why—oh, why—will you not unlock the mystery now?"
"Soon, my Farnermain," she answered in a musing, troubled manner. "Soon will the mystery, which troubles you so sorely, be made clear. And now let us leave this room—but no; first I must speak to the people. They too will want an explanation, but I shall not make it clear to them now. The time is not meet. Perchance I shall be able—"
There was a momentary pause.
"See that pursy man," she went on with a marked alteration of voice and manner, "near him of the noble countenance and the white beard: that man is the high priest, and, of a verity, he is a son of Satan."
I liked the appearance of the old man, who, as Draconda had said, was noble of countenance; but certainly I did not like the looks of that sleek-faced, snake-eyed high priest, whose name, we soon learned, was Sallysherib.
Our mysterious Draconda now addressed the people, speaking earnestly for two or three minutes. Then ensued a hot dialogue with Sallysherib, one of the most evil-looking men I ever have laid eyes on. All the Venusians listened greedily, as if in fear they might lose a syllable. Soon it became patent that the priest was getting the worst of it. The queen remained calm; but Sallysherib's face became suffused with cholerie blood, and he choked and spluttered in his wrath and finally stood speechless.
And the end of the matter was that this sacerdotal son of Satan "begged" the queen's permission to leave the room, which readily was given, and then, with a vicious little bow, he turned and marched away, honoring Henry and myself with a look truly malignant as he was vanishing between the curtains, held aside for his spectacular exit.
Henry and I looked at each other significantly.
"Confound it," said I to myself, "that old cock had gone to sharpen his spurs, and, if our beautiful feathers don't fly, I miss my guess."
There was silence for a little space, during which Draconda stood plunged in thought.
"Let us go now," she said.
She addressed something to The Wolf, who, it was clear, was in no serene state of mind—the man giving an answer short and sullen.
Then this mysterious queen took Henry's left hand and my right, and, as unseen trumpets sounded, she led us from the great hall, followed by Princess Nytes, Mynine and that noble-looking old man.
Such was our meeting with Draconda.
And there was soon to occur, in another room in this palace, a meeting even more strange.
This Remarkable Story Will Be Continued in the Next Issue of WEIRD TALES.
Don't Miss the Next Installment. It is Filled with Strange and Exciting Events.
The Passing of Tyre and Sidon
ALTHOUGH the names of Tyre and Sidon, because of their recurrence in the Bible and in literature that has borrowed its imagery from scripture, are more familiar to the civilized world than those of some cities of a million inhabitants, the actual places are seldom seen by strangers.
These cities—or city-sites, for today Tyre is only an inconsiderable town of about 6,000 inhabitants, although it was once the prize for which kings and conquerors contended—suggest thoughts of the passing of the pomp and power of the past—"Sic transit gloria mundi." Pharaohs of Egypt, kings of Assyria and Babylon and Persia and Greece and Rome, as well as the Crusaders and the Moslems, all fought furious battles and maintained incredible sieges for the capture of Tyre. Although incrusted with historical associations and literary traditions, this once-powerful Tyre, which supplanted Carthage and established colonies in Europe and was mistress of the Mediterranean, is now a ruin with few traces of its ancient grandeur, all having been submerged by sand and sea.
Sidon is unlike all the other cities of the world. Even the East of which it is a part has no other surviving city to compare with it. Perhaps the streets are not as old as they seem; for the city was cruelly decimated again and again during the period of the Crusades—not to speak of its earlier vicissitudes and glories—yet the vaulted highways, low and narrow, impress a visitor as having the flavor of immemorial antiquity. The arched bazaars of Constantinople and Damascus and the few vaulted streets of old Jerusalem, are not to be compared with the covered thoroughfares of Sidon.
