"It must have been the eclipse," said Rhodes. "It is plain, Bill, that there is something about this darkness that is mysterious and awful to the Dromans. It must be in some way a most extraordinary eclipse."
There was something awful—something more awful than we thought. And what troubled me the most was this: they seemed to think that we men from the world above had something to do with this dread darkness—already one of far longer duration than any eclipse any living Droman had ever known. Indeed, none such had been recorded for what we would call centuries, and the last had been the harbinger of the most fearful calamities.
We knew full well that some superstition was pointing a fell finger in our direction; but through the mind of neither flickered the thought that this eclipse might, so to speak, be metamorphosed into a death-charge against us.
As we were drawing in to the palace, a heavy voice came across the water. On the instant the rowers rested on their oars. Our commander answered the hail, the heavy voice came again, whereupon the oars were dipped and our craft glided in toward the landing place.
Like a great lovely water-bird, our boat swung in to the landing place, where she was at once made fast.
And then a strange thing happened.
Rhodes and I stepped from the boat together. Since the light had gone out in that fierce and terrible flash, not the faintest glimmer had shone overhead—anywhere. But, at that very instant in which we set foot on the island, there came a flash wrathful and awful.
For a few seconds the palace, the water, the city, the distant walls of rock stood out in bold relief, as though in the glare of leprous fire. Then utter darkness again. It was like (and yet very unlike, too) a lightning flash; but no thunder roared, not the faintest sound was heard. Again that leprous light, and this time cries broke out—cries that fear and horror wrung from the Dromans. It was, indeed, an awful moment and an awful scene.
"It looks," said Rhodes, "as though the world is coming to an end."
"Certainly," I told him, "it seems as though the Dromans think so. Look at Drorathusa!"
Again she was standing with arms extended upward, and once more that strange, eery voice of hers came sounding. Everyone there, save Rhodes and myself, was kneeling. Little wonder that, as I looked upon that fearful scene, with the leprous light flashing and quivering through the darkness, I thought it must all be a dream.
The flashes became more frequent. The light began to turn opalescent and to shoot and quiver and shake along the roof. Then of a sudden the eclipse—what other word is there to use?—had passed and all was bright once more.
We at once quitted the landing place, ascended a short flight of steps, passed through a most beautiful court and then, having ascended more steps, entered the palace itself.
Our little party was conducted
straight to the throne-room. And
straight down the great central aisle
we went and stood at last before the
queen herself.
There is nothing, as we then saw, servile, debasing in Droman court ceremonial. The meanest Droman, indeed, would never dream of kneeling before his queen. A Droman kneels to no man or woman, but to
