I turned and ran toward the citadel, with the whole pack of them at my heels. Just as we got to the bridge The Man Who Will Come, with a couple of his men at his back, came tearing down-stairs, but as soon as they saw the reinforcements they stopped and hesitated and then began to climb back again.
The little Japanese gentleman shouted something in an angry voice and put on more steam, so that he passed me and got to the stairs first. We all ran up in a crowd. For a minute The Man stood at the top as though he’d make a fight for it, but panic got him, I guess, and he turned like he’d lost his head, and tried to scoot three ways at once.
We pounded right up and two of our Japanese grabbed him by the arms. He didn’t even struggle. Three of his followers huddled back in a corner of the gallery, glowering and sullen, but frightened, and the reinforcements attended to them.
“Where is he?” the little Japanese gentleman demanded, and I pointed through the door just as Mark and Motu shoved the fourth of The Man’s men out of the way and stepped into sight. Then a surprising thing happened.
The dignified little Japanese gentleman, silk hat and frock-coat and all, went right down on his knees and bowed so his face was almost rubbing against the boards, and in a strangled voice said something in their own language to Motu, who stopped with the greatest look of surprise at sight of him. Then Motu stood still and drew himself up to his full height, and smiled. It’s hard to say just how he looked, but I guess stately is the only word for it. He looked like a boy who was used to having folks go down on their knees and rub their noses in the splinters for him.
He said something to the little Japanese gentleman, who got up on his feet, his face working and his eyes blinking as if he was so happy he was about to cry.
“It is well you have come,” Motu says to him in English. “The ears of my serene uncle shall hear how you arrived—and there shall be fresh honors and distinctions for one who already stands among the foremost.”
“You are safe? You are untouched by the hands of these pigs? If one has so much as defiled your sacred person with the touch of a finger—”
“Good friend,” says Motu, with a gentle smile, “we are in America.”
“True.” The little gentleman glared back at The Man and his army. “Here they are safe. But let them once return to their home—!”