though even the policemen wore a somewhat chastened appearance, they still stood. She glanced toward the dais. Mr. Pity, with a pained, faraway expression, was scribbling at his list. Mr. Justice Supreme opened his eyes with a start, like a man unexpectedly relieved from torment. He snarled incoherently and flapped a yellow hand at Mr. Pity. The bull of Basban stood his ground, his eyes blinking, his beard once more a dark, unbroken jungle. As the two Trenmores learned later, his complacence was not without foundation. His wife was a third cousin of Mr. Justice Supreme, and he himself was distantly connected with the family of Mr. Purity, of the dragging leg.
The master of ceremonies lifted up his own thin, piercing voice, like the piping of a reed after the bellow of thunders.
'Sir, His Supremity thanks you for your wonderful rendering of-er-sound.' He turned to the throne. 'Mr. Justice Supreme, the contestants in all humility submit their respective merits to the high decision of our lord and father, Penn!'
The old dandy dragged himself to his feet. The audience was more than hushed; it wasn't even breathing now. No. 57403 cast a pitying glance at the bearded mountain and fearlessly eyed his judge.
'Children of Penn,' began that snarling, senile voice, 'in due legal and sacred form two contestants have striven before the father and protector of us all. One is young. He should have further perfected his attainments before presuming to air them in this sacred Hall. Yet his very youth excuses him, and Penn the All-Father is merciful. He can forgive even presumption. For the magnificent bass voice which we have just been privileged to- hm! — enjoy, in a rendering of the work of a great composer, so exalted above the paltry, sentimental balderdash of the other contestant-I–I-words fail me!'
Mr. Justice Supreme glared down at the contestant he was praising with eyes so malevolent that the mountain actually cringed-if a mountain can be said to cringe.
'The decision of Penn,' snarled Mr. Justice Supreme, 'is that No. 57403 be dropped into the Pit of the Past. Mercy may extend to his immortal soul, but not to his presumptuous body! And the present musical director will continue in office.'
Dropping back on his throne with a gasp of exhaustion, he recovered sufficiently to rasp out: 'Go! And Penn bless you!' to the victorious contestant.
Then, with the air of one who has got through a tedious but necessary duty, he let his ancient, villainous body relax and his bleared eyes close.
The mountain removed itself with suspicious alacrity. If the look in its porcine eyes went for anything, that musical director valued the 'blessing of Penn' less than the permission to vacate an unexpectedly dangerous neighborhood.
But for poor No. 57403 no such retreat was possible. For an instant he seemed unable to believe his ears. He reddened and glanced uneasily about, as if to question others of this injustice, this incredible decision. Then the color faded, he drew himself to his slender height and bowed to the condemning judge with a dignity worthy of some classic young Greek.
Viola clutched at Terry's arm in frantic appeal, but one mightier even than Terence Trenmore was present there-a giant crushed, betrayed, bound down in fetters of ignorance; but a giant none the less. A low growl was the first intimation that he had awakened. It was the voice of the Numbers; a warning protest against this blackest wrong. They surged forward. It was a little motion-half a step-but before it the police were crushed irresistibly back against the plush rope. Alarmed, they faced about with threatening clubs. The eyes of the enthroned figure on the dais snapped open.
'Silence!' he snarled. 'Guard, open the pit!'
A crouching, striped form stole forth, leaned over the Dove, and the symbol dropped. But the young man did not drop with it as ordained. He had, quite instinctively and naturally, stepped backward from the danger.
'In with him!'
'No-no-no!' This time it was a roaring negative from hundreds of throats. Heedless now of sacrilege, the Numbers again surged. The plush rope stretched and broke. In an instant clubs were rising and falling desperately. The police might as well have attempted to dam Niagara with a toothpick. A few Numbers in the front ranks went down, it is true, but over their bodies came their fellows, pushed irresistibly by the mass behind.
The former enclosure disappeared. A series of piercing shrieks cut the uproar like knife stabs. They came from below, and Viola, shuddering in her brother's arm, knew that some unfortunate had been pushed into the Pit of the Past.
Mr. Pity, finding himself confronted by a myriad of upturned, glaring eyes, retreated precipitately. But the dais was not stormed-not yet. Too many years of ground-in teaching, too thorough a dread of the awful power of Penn Service held them back.
'Go to it-go to it, boys!' yelled Trenmore, holding Viola in one arm and shaking his other fist excitedly. 'Down with the murdering hounds! Scrape the platform like a dirty dish!'
His great voice merged indistinguishably with the swelling roar beneath the echoing dome. The police were down, or helplessly packed in. One more surge and the wave would have broken over the platform, performing the very feat suggested by Trenmore. But in that fatal instant of superstitious hesitance the blare of a bugle rang high above the din. It was followed by a rattling, crashing sound, mingled with shrieks, screams, and horrible, echoing sounds of pain and fear unutterable.
Turning its eyes from the dais, the mob knew that its moment of power was past. Each one of those colored panels in the walls, enameled with the figures of strange gods or demons, had slid to one side. Each had hidden the muzzle of a machine gun. Three of them were already in action, spitting curses that killed. There were women and even babies there, but what cared Penn Service for that? They were merely Numbers. And Numbers in revolt must be crushed-massacred if need be.
The growl of the giant was transmuted into frantic prayer. Those close to the dais flung themselves on their knees and stretched supplicating hands toward the throne they had all but overturned.
A moment Mr. Justice Supreme waited, while the guns still spat and swore. Then both his hands went up, palms outward. The crashing rattle ceased. Only the prayers and shrieks continued, increased, and echoed from the Dome of Justice to the wail of a great city, sacked and full of bloody wrongs.
Again the old man raised his yellow, skinny hands, this time with a silencing, pacifying gesture, and silence followed, spreading from before the dais as the first growl had spread. Even the wounded, so great is the power of life-long submission, ceased presently to shriek. Only the occasional wail of some infant, too young to recognize the supremacy of ruthless force, broke the ghastly quiet.
'My children,' began the High Priest of Evil, 'you have sinned grievously.' The excitement had invigorated and ennobled his voice, so that it was no longer a snarl, but a dreadful threat. 'You have been punished a little,' he cried. 'Beware lest the great and tender patience of Penn be strained to breaking and you be punished past any power to remedy!'
He pointed solemnly upward at the Red Bell. A shivering groan swept the hall.
'You have broken the sacred silence. Beware that it be not broken by a voice more awful! Beware that it be not broken by a tongue at whose speaking you and your sons and your daughters, your women and your men, shall fall into the ignoble dust from which you sprang! Ungrateful Children of Penn, gather up your wounded and your dead. Depart from this temple which you have desecrated. Go home, and on your knees thank the old and faithful servant who intercedes for you-even you, the graceless children of a kind and merciful father! But first yield up the body of that young man whose vanity and presumption have caused your sorrow and his. Yield him, I say! Where is he?'
Mr. Justice Supreme actually tottered forward to the platform edge. Like a bloodthirsty old ferret, questing some particular tender rabbit, he scanned the faces nearest him. The crowd gave back. Here and there the head and blue shoulders of a policeman bobbed into view. But No. 57403 was not produced.
'Give him up!' yelled the old man. Dignity forgotten, he brandished his ebony cane like a sword. 'Yield him up, you-whoever is concealing him! Or the guns shall talk to you!'
He was answered by a low mutter, then silence. The Numbers stood with set, dogged faces, staring back at their oppressor.
Trenmore gave Viola a sudden squeeze. 'Powers o' darkness!' he whispered exultantly. 'The pups have the makings of men in them, after all! They'll not give him up, their sweet-voiced lad. They'll die by the guns, men, women, and babes, but-'
'Surrender him!' The high priest's voice crackled ominously. 'I'll give you while I count three. One-two-th-
