In a sombre chamber beyond, seen
through a vacant archway, magicians with lighted tapers plied their
wizardry and whispered incantations. All the rats in the place were
passing away, going whimpering down the stairway. The man from
the black-thatched cottage passed through that second chamber: the
magicians did not look at him and did not cease to whisper. He passed
from them through heavy curtains still of black velvet and came into a
chamber of black marble where nothing stirred. Only one taper burned
in the third chamber; there were no windows. On the smooth floor and
under the smooth wall a silk pavilion stood with its curtains drawn close
together: this was the holy of holies of that ominous place, its inner
mystery. One on each side of it dark figures crouched, either of men
or women or cloaked stone, or of beasts trained to be silent. When
the awful stillness of the mystery was more than he could bear the
man from the black-thatched cottage by the five pine-trees went up
to the silk pavilion, and with a bold and nervous clutch of the hand
drew one of the curtains aside, and saw the inner mystery, and laughed.
And the prophecy was fulfilled, and Thlunrana was never more a terror
to the valley, but the magicians passed away from their terrific halls and
fled through the open fields wailing and beating their breasts, for
laughter was the enemy that was doomed to come against Thlunrana
through her southward gate (that was named the Gate of the Doom),
and it is of the gods but dwells with man.
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