The Incense Master
pricked each yellow arm, to mingle human blood with the blood of the
white cock; then, from a brazen vessel, filled the goblet to the brim.
It passed from hand to hand, like a loving-cup. Each novice raised it,
chanted some formula, and drank. Then all dispersed. There fell
a silence.
Suddenly, in the pale face of the black image seated before the shrine,
the eyes turned, scanning the company with a cold contempt. The lips
moved. The voice, level and ironic, was that of Fang, the Sword-Pen:--
"O Fragrant Ones, when shall the foreign monsters perish like this
cock?"
A man in black, with a red wand, bowed and answered harshly:--
"The time, Great Elder Brother, draws at hand."
"How shall we know the hour?"
"The hour," replied the Red Wand, "shall be when the Black Dog barks."
"And the day?"
Heywood pressed his ear against the chink, and listened, his five senses
fused into one.
No answer came, but presently a rapid, steady clicking, strangely
familiar and commonplace. He peered in again. The Red Wand stood by the
abacus, rattling the brown beads with flying fingers, like a shroff.
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