"We live in an age when doubt roams through the world like a beast of prey.

I ask not for the faith that accepts blindly; but in this most sacred Scitsym--" he pointed to the white book upon the lectern--"it is written that, by a certain secret Sign, the Arch-Mystics will recognize Him for whom they have waited.

I call upon the Arch-Mystics to declare whether or no I bear upon my person that secret Sign!" He paused for a moment; then with a grave, calm gesture he unfastened his robe where it crossed his breast and threw it open.
There was a rustle of intense curiosity, as all involuntarily leaned forward; an audible gasp of awe and shrinking, as all instinctively drew back before the sight that confronted them.

Across the Prophet's breast, in marks of a cruel laceration, ran the symbolic octagonal figure of the Mystic sect.
He stood dignified and unmoved until the tremor of emotion had subsided.
Then his glance travelled over the foremost row of seats.
"Come forth!" he commanded, authoritatively.

"Come forth and acknowledge me!" His eyes moved slowly from seat to seat--pausing momentarily on the pale, absorbed face of the woman in black.