What should he care about time? He had this
hour.
When the prince ceased speaking the hall was hushed; but because of
the tempest in the hearts of them all the silence was as if a strong
wind, sweeping powerfully through a forest, were to sway no boughs
and lift no leaves, only to strive noiselessly round one who walked
there.
Prince Tabnit wrapped his white mantle about him and sat upon his
throne. Spell-stricken, they watched him, that great multitude, and
might not turn away their eyes. Slowly, imperceptibly, as Time
touches the familiar, the face of the prince took on its change--and
one could not have told wherein the change lay, but subtly as the
encroachment of the dark, or the alchemy of the leaves, or the
betrayal of certain modes of death, the finger was upon him. While
they watched he became an effigy, the hideous face of a fantasy of
smoke against the night sky, with a formless hand lifted from among
the delicate laces in farewell. There was no death--the horror was
that there was no death.
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