She waited irresolute, until the cold, inquiring gaze of the Arch-Mystic made action compulsory; then, scarcely conscious of the movement, she inclined her head in mechanical acknowledgment of his courtesy, and, turning away, passed down the lofty, sombre hall.
Never in after-life was she able to remember, with any degree of distinctness, her threading of the familiar corridors leading to the chapel.

Her consciousness of outer things was numbed by mental strife.
Reaching the heavy curtain that shut off the sacred precinct, she thrust it aside with nervous impetuosity and stood looking around the deserted chapel--glancing from the rows of empty chairs to the Sanctuary, where the great golden Throne stood shrouded in a white cloth, and the silver censers lay awaiting the flame.
At a first glance it seemed that the chapel was entirely empty, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the modulated light diffused by eight large tapers, she saw that the Sanctuary was occupied by one sombre figure that flitted silently between the lectern and the Throne.

For an instant her heart leaped, for the man was of the same height and build as the Precursor; but a second glance put her hopes to flight.

The Mystic within the Sanctuary was the humble member of the congregation whose duty it was to wait upon the Prophet.
As she passed slowly and automatically up the aisle, the man turned and looked at her; but after a cursory glance returned to his task of setting the Sanctuary in order.
The look and the evident unconcern chilled and daunted her anew.

With a movement of despair she paused, and sank into one of the empty chairs.
For a space that seemed eternal, she sat huddled in her seat--her hands clasped nervously in her lap; her ears alert to catch the slightest sound; her eyes unconsciously following the movements of the man within the Sanctuary; then, suddenly and abruptly, the tension snapped; and action--action of some description--became imperative.