“What is it, Master Hal?” quavered he. “What d’ye want me to say?”
“Say this: ‘If I betray this secret—’”
“‘If I—if I betray this secret—’”
“‘May the black curse of Vishnu fall on me!’”
“‘May the’—listen, Master Hal! Please now, jest one minute!”
“Ezra, say it, damn your stiff, obstinate neck! Say it, or you get the knife!”
“‘May the black curse o’—o’ Vishnoo fall on me!”
“‘And may his poisoned kris strike through my heart!’”
“No, no, sir, I can’t say that!” pleaded the simple old fellow, ashen to the lips, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles of terror.
“You will say it, Ezra, and you’ll mean it, or by the powers of darkness I’ll butcher you where you stand!” menaced Hal. “And you’ll say it quick, too!” Hal was nerving his hand to do cold murder. “One, two, three, four! Say it now before I cut you down! There’s blood on this knife, Ezra. See the dark stains? Blood, that my grandfather put on there, fifty years ago—that’s what I’ve heard among old sailors—put on there, because some of his men wouldn’t obey him. Well, I can play the same game. What he did, I can do, and will! There’ll be more blood on it, fresh blood, your blood, if you don’t mind me. Five, six, seven! Say it, you obstinate cur!”