Lodivarman's rotting face twitched with rage. He was rendered speechless by the effrontery of this low knave. Twice he tried to speak, but his anger choked him; and then he sprang for a cord that depended against one of the walls, but King guessed his purpose and forestalled him. Springing forward, he grasped Lodivarman roughly by the shoulder and hurled him back. "Not a sound out of you," he said, "or Lodidhapura will be needing a new king."
It was then that Lodivarman found his voice. "You shall be boiled in oil for this," he said in a low voice.
"Then I might as well kill you," said Gordon King, "for if I have to die, it is well that I have my vengeance first," and he raised his spear as though to cast it.
"No, no!" exclaimed Lodivarman. "Do not kill me. I grant you pardon for your great offence."
King could not but marvel at the workings of the great law of self-preservation that caused this diseased and rotten thing, burdened by misery, hatred, and unhappiness, so tenaciously to cling to the hope of life.
"Come, come!" cried Lodivarman. "Tell me what you want and be gone."
"I told you what I wanted," said King. "I came for Fou-tan."
"You cannot have her," cried Lodivarman. "She is mine. Think you that a woman would leave a king for you, knave?"
"Ask her," said King; but there was no need to ask her. Fou-tan crossed quickly to the American's side.
"Oh, Lodivarman," she cried, "let me go away in peace with this warrior."