“Without evil, there could be no good,” continued the sonorous rhythm of the Marquis. “They are extremes of the same essence, even as heat and cold are of the same nature. And to serve the Lord of Evil (if evil indeed there is) is to pay a just tribute to him without whom there could be none of the so-called good, if good indeed there is. Thus in time to come, when Malik Taûs spreads his painted fan over all the earth, we who now serve him shall be princes and lords and shall inherit the world. Look!” he commanded, his voice rising imperiously as he pointed to the shrine; “look and see his thousand eyes that watch over us!”

The girl turned, following with her eyes his compelling gesture. And in that instant the Marquis, never pausing in his speech, dropped into her wine a tiny pellet.

The man was mad with a fearful, unspeakable madness. And here I was, barred from preventing what I now sensed to be impending, a sequel to the preliminary rites I had witnessed, a manifestation of demonaltry in which none but the high priest would officiate.

“Those black hands? They are the hands of Abbadon, the Dark Angel who serves Malik Taûs; and on them we lay that which we dedicate to the Lord Peacock,” explained the Marquis.

I loosened the Luger in its holster. At times one must shoot from ambush … but not yet.

“And so, you are the only adept, Etienne?” queried the girl, resuming her wine.

“There was another, but he is dead. Through my fault. Don Santiago de las Torres Negras.”

Lord, what a revelation! Here, in this awful place, I was about to learn another side of that uncanny duel fought by Pierre d’Artois at midnight, at the Spring of St. Leon.

“He challenged one Pierre d’Artois,” continued the Marquis, “to fight in secret, at midnight, at the Spring of St. Leon. And the Master forbade—”

“And why did you forbid, Etienne?”

“I didn’t. No. The Master of Masters …” The Marquis lowered his voice. “A stranger out of Kurdistan, one whom I recognized as a master of adepts, by the signs he gave … the Master, I now believe … Malik Taûs himself, the Lord Peacock incarnate as man! He forbade the duel. I feared for Santiago, and wished to prevent it, out of deference to the Master’s wishes, and from fear of d’Artois, a swordsman without like or equal. So, I invited Santiago to a château across the border, in Spain, set back all the clocks, sought to divert him, deceive him until, when at last he did sense my device, it would be too late for him to keep his rendezvous. Rob him of his honor, yes; make him fail in his word, yes; but I sought to spare him that meeting with d’Artois, and from the vengeance of the Master.”

“And did you succeed?”