George set
something that he had taken from his pocket. It was the vase of
rock-crystal from which, the night before in the room of the tombs,
the king had drunk.
What followed was the last thing that St. George had expected. It
was as if his defiance had unlocked flood-gates. In an instant the
vast assembly was in motion. With a sound of garments that was like
far wind they were upon their feet and pressing toward the throne.
With all the passion of their "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in response to
Olivia's appeal they came, resistlessly demanding the answer to some
dreadful question long shrouded in their hearts. Their armour was
their silence; they made no sound save that ominous sweep of their
robes and the conspiracy of their sandaled feet upon the tiles.
St. George did not turn. Indeed, it did not once cross his mind that
their hostility could possibly be toward him. Besides, his look was
fixed upon the prince's face, and what he read there was enough. The
peers, the High Council and those nearest the throne wavered and
swerved from the man, leaving him to face what was to come.
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