Here, at a sign from her father, we knelt, while, laying his
hands on our heads, and stooping to kiss each upon the brow--Eveena
raising her veil for one moment and dropping it again--he continued--
"So we greet you evermore,
Brethren of the deathless Lore;
So your vows our own renew,
Sworn to all as each to you.
Yours at once the secrets won
Age by age, from sire to son;
Yours the fruit through countless years
Grown by thought and toil and tears.
He who guards you guards his own,
He who fails you fails the Throne."
The last two lines were repeated, as by a simultaneous impulse, in a
low but audible tone by the whole assembly. In the meantime Esmo had
invested each of us with the symbol of our enrolment in the Zinta, the
silver sash and Star of the Initiates. The ceremonial seemed to me to
afford that sort of religious sanction and benediction which had been
so signally wanting to the original form of our union. As we rose I
turned my eyes for a moment upon the Throne, now vacant as at first.
Another Chief, followed by the voices of the assembly, repeated, in a
low deep tone, which fell on our ears as distinctly as the loudest
trumpet-note in the midst of absolute silence, the solemn
imprecation--
"Who denies a brother's need,
Who in will, or word, or deed,
Breaks the Circle's bounded line,
Rends the Veil that guards the Shrine,
Lifts the hand to lips that lie,
Fronts the Star with soothless eye:--.
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