"No. The King of Asia. Peter—can you understand? I am leaving you! This is good-by! I—I—we will never see each other again. I—I couldn't turn you over to that man!"
"But the candle——" Peter was miserably confused. "You raised it—once! I said no!"
Romola seemed to become rather hysterical. "I tricked them, Peter! Oh, won't you understand? I do love you, Peter! I couldn't give you to them!"
"No," he muttered; "I don't understand. I—I'm dizzy."
The voice was bellowing again.
"Is that Peter Moore? What's happened to him?"
"He's sick—sick! Send down a watchman. Hurry! This tide is carrying us away!"
Something bounded into the sampan. A brown coil was flattened against the gleaming black wall.
But Peter could not understand. He was back again in the cellar under Romola's house, mumbling insanely about a candle-light. Perhaps he dreamed that hot lips were pressed lingeringly against his own. Over and over he heard a fading voice; it was saying: "Good-by!—Ch'ing!"
The glaring sun was in his face. He shut his eyes. The lips seemed to be torn from his in a cry of anguish. Strong arms encircled his waist, and he was no longer aware of the motion of the sampan.