"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 234 - Temple of Crime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

There, the procession halted, the eyes of all the marchers riveted upon the building that awaited them.
White as alabaster, the Temple of Ammon reared from the darkness, catching the glow of the dying
moonlight that struggled through clouds overhead.

The temple was built in peristyle form, an oblong structure surrounded by pillars, each column a stalwart
sentinel that seemed ready to crash itself upon any marauder who disturbed these sacred preserves. Like
the rest, Margo felt herself drawn back to the shelter of the trees, unwilling to advance another step until
someone gave the proper word.

That someone was ready.

Tall, imposing, firm of stride, Amru Monak advanced toward the temple, then turned to face his
followers. Glaring torches threw their glow upon his olive face, gave it a ruddy touch that, for the
moment, seemed satanic. But there was nothing of the demon in Monak's countenance, as the observers
viewed it more closely.

Monak was handsome, his visage smooth and sculptured, as perfect, in its human way, as the pillared
temple which made a background for his majestic pose. His eyes, black as coals, caught the glow of the
torches and reflected a glitter that seemed fixed upon each member of the cult.

Those eyes were piercing the veil of the past, and when Monak raised one hand, with pointing finger,
even the poplars seemed to cease their whispers, that they might listen.

Monak spoke. His words had the clear chime of a bell.

"Above us is the moon of Isis," declaimed Monak, "the great goddess who rules the realm of night. Soon
her sway will end, and from the east" - he lowered his hand to an angle, so that the finger pointed above
the trees - "will rise the sun, symbol of Ammon-Ra, to whom this temple is dedicated.

"Let us enter singing praise to Ammon. Let us be present at the moment when the rule of Isis ends and
that of Ammon begins. Then, with the dawn itself, we shall hear the voice of Ammon proclaim the coming
of the day!"

Imposingly, Monak turned toward the temple. His lips began a chant that the others took up. Margo
knew the words, for she had learned them like the rest.

The chant was in the Egyptian tongue, a greeting to Ammon, sung almost in a monotone. For the first
time, the chanters were hearing themselves in unison, and the effect was powerful.

Each voice imbued the others with its strength. Of one accord, the cult members moved forward behind
Monak. Ahead, the great doors of the temple stood closed, but the marchers advanced, undeterred.
Margo felt the curious sensation that no physical barrier could block this inspired procession; that the
doors themselves would melt under the power of the chant.

What did happen was almost as amazing.

AS Monak and his followers reached the doors, they opened, swinging inward on unseen hinges to let
the procession through. The marchers crossed the marble floor of an atrium, or outer room, and as
Monak ended the chant with a sweep of his arms, Margo looked back, to see the great doors closing as