Up rose the kris again, ready to strike. Hal’s eyes were glowing. His lips had drawn back, showing the gleam of white teeth.
“Keep your hand on that Bible, Ezra! Take that oath. Say it! Eight, nine, t—”
“I’ll say it, Master Hal! I’ll say it!” gasped the old man. “Don’t kill me—don’t!”
“Say it, then: ‘May this poisoned kris strike through my heart!’”
“‘M-m-may this poisoned kris—strike through—my—heart!’ There now! Oh! Now I’ve said it. Let me go—let me go!”
“Go, and be damned to you! Get out o’ here, you spying surka-batcha—you son-of-a-pig!”
Hal dropped the Bible back on to the desk, swung Ezra ’round, and pitched him, staggering, into the dining-saloon. Ezra dragged himself away, quaking, ghastly, to his own room, there to lock himself in. Spent, terrified, he threw himself upon his bunk, and lay there, half dead.
Well satisfied, Hal reviewed the situation.
“I guess I’ve kept him quiet for a while,” he muttered. “Long enough, anyhow. I won’t need much more time now.”