He made a long, profound obeisance, and stepped deferentially to the table.
"Your pardon, Master!" he murmured.

"We knew not that the immutable Soul was speaking from within you, calling one among us towards the Light!" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to where the massive form and agitated face of Bale-Corphew was framed in the doorway.
At his peremptory look the Arch-Mystic seemed to gather himself together.

Stepping forward, he made a slightly tardy reverence.
"Master," he said, huskily, "what the Precursor tells you is the truth.
Seeing the threshold unguarded, we concluded that the audiences for the day were over." His prominent brown eyes were filled with conflicting expressions as he turned them on the Prophet.
But the Prophet remained unmoved.

The hard look had returned to his face, the stern rigidity to his figure.

Very slowly he released the hand that still trembled under his own.
"The time of the Prophet belongs to his People," he said, with dignity.
"He holds audience whenever, wherever, and _however_ it is expedient.
Speak, my son! In what can I serve you ?" Bale-Corphew looked at him in silence.