Skor's sallow face paled. He glowered at the speaker. "I am about to give you life," cried the jong angrily, "and you do not appreciate it."
"We do not wish to live," replied the corpse. "We wish death. Let us have death and oblivion again—let us return to our graves in peace."
At these words, Skor flew into a fit of rage. He half rose, and drawing a sword struck at the face of the speaker. The keen blade laid open an ugly wound from temple to chin. The edges of the wound gaped wide, but no blood flowed.
The dead man laughed. "You cannot hurt the dead," he mocked.
Skor was livid. He sought words, but his rage choked him. Flecks of foam whitened his lips. If ever I have looked upon a madman it was then. Suddenly he turned upon Duare.
"You are the cause of this!" he screamed. "Never say such things again before my subjects. You shall be queen! I will make you queen of Morov, a living queen, or I will make you one of these. Which do you choose?"
"Give me death," replied Duare.
"That you shall never have—not real death, only the counterfeit that you see before you—neither life nor death."
At last the ghastly meal drew to a close. Skor arose and motioned Duare to accompany him. He did not leave the room as he had entered it; no trumpeters nor warriors accompanied him. He walked toward the small doorway at the rear of the room, the spectators giving way before him and Duare as they advanced.