It is astonishing in how short a space of time a man of vigorous character can make his personality felt.

On the night of his mysterious advent, the Prophet had found his people in a condition of mental chaos--as liable to repudiate as to accept the seeker for their confidence; but before one month had passed he had, by domination of will, so moulded this neurotic mass of humanity that his own position had gradually and insensibly merged from suppliant into that of autocrat.

Without a murmur of doubt or dissension the Mystics had proclaimed him their king.
On the last day of the thirty he sat alone in his room--the room in which he and the red-haired Precursor had held their private council on the night of his coming.

The heavy purple curtains that shielded the windows were partly drawn, throwing a subdued, almost a devotional, light over the wide, imposing apartment and across the ebony table, on which rested the sacred Scitsym, surrounded by an array of smaller and more ancient books, several rolls of parchment, a number of quill pens, and a dish of ink.

It was at this table that the Prophet sat; he wore the monastic white robe that he always affected in presence of his people, his arms were folded, and his face looked calm and grave, as though he appreciated the moment's solitude.
The solitude, however, was not destined to endure.