They crouched abject, while the tall Master of Incense in the dove-gray
silk sternly examined their sponsor.
In the outer darkness, Heywood craned and listened till neck and
shoulders ached. He could make nothing of the florid verbiage.
With endless ritual, the crawling novices reached the arch of swords.
They knelt, each holding above his head a lighted bundle of
incense-sticks,--red sparks that quivered like angry fireflies. Above
them the tall Master of Incense thundered:--
"O Spirits of the Hills and Brooks, the Land, the swollen seeds of the
ground, and all the Veins of Earth; O Thou, young Bearer of the Axe that
cleared the Hills; O Imperial Heaven, and ye, Five Dragons of the Five
Regions, with all the Holy Influences who pass and instantly re-pass
through unutterable space:--draw near, record our oath, accept the
draught of blood."
He raised at arm's length a heavy baton, which, with a flowing movement,
unrolled to the floor a bright yellow scroll thickly inscribed. From
this he read, slowly, an interminable catalogue of oaths. Heywood could
catch only the scolding sing-song of the responses:--
"If any brother shall break this, let him die beneath ten thousand
knives.
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