“No, nor shall I,” he muttered, and instantly realized his mistake.
She drew back, startled, and swooped at him again.
“Open your eyes!” She forced his lids up.
“Failed!”
“Failed!” Ortho repeated.
“Bah! there are other means,” she snarled, jumped up, flitted round the room, stood transfixed in thought in the center, both hands to her cheeks, laughed, tore off her orange scarf and dropped on her knees beside him.
“Other means, Kaid.” She slipped the silk loop round his neck, knotted it and twisted.
She was going to strangle him, the time-hallowed practice of the East. He tried to stop her, lifted his heavy hands, but they were powerless, like so much dead wood. He swelled his neck muscles, but it was useless; the silk was cutting in all round, a red-hot wire. He had a flash picture of Osman Bâki standing over his body, wagging his head regretfully and saying, “I said so,” Osman Bâki with the Owls’ House for background. It was all over; the girl had waited and got him in the end. Even at that moment he admired her for it. She had spirit; never had he seen such spirit. Came a pang of intolerable pain, his eyeballs were starting out, his head was bursting open—and then the tension at his throat inexplicably relaxed.
Ortho rolled over, panting and retching, and as he did so heard footsteps on the stairs.
A fist thumped on the door, a voice cried, “Kaid! Kaid!” and there was Osman Bâki.