A struggle between superstitious dread and human curiosity was distinctly visible in her expression as she stood uncertain of her position, doubtful as to her first move.
The Prophet glanced at her, and the shadow of a smile touched his lips.
"Have no fear," he said.

"Come forward!" The strong, steady voice gave her courage, and with slightly agitated haste she stepped towards the table.
The Prophet gravely motioned her to a seat and assumed an attitude of attention.

Upon each of the thirty mornings he had sat in this same position in his ivory chair, while, one after another, the members of the sect had claimed audience with him.

Morning after morning he had exhibited the same grave, aloof interest--his hands clasped, his eyes upon the Scitsym--while the fearful, the fanatical, the hysterical had poured forth their tales of struggle or aspiration.

But now, on this last morning, he was conscious of a new suggestion, a new impression in what had grown to be routine.