As they re-traveled the labyrinth of corridors and courts, there hung before Trent a picture of the arena as he last looked upon it—a grim etching. He had seen men slaughtered in recognized warfare, had seen prisoners executed, but this—There was something monstrous, something inexplicably hideous, about it. His failure to understand the uncanny impression only sharpened the horror. "Their tongues are slit—" Na-chung's words were written as with steel upon his brain. When men's tongues are slit it is obviously for the purpose of preventing speech. What did those wretches know? "Political offenders," the councillor had said ... yet....
So ran his thoughts as they emerged at length on the other side of Lhakang-gompa. Night was swiftly gathering, and a familiar vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair swam in the dusk of the courtyard near the gate. As Trent drew nearer, a figure in long robes stepped out. He saw the pale blot of the Governor's face.
"Ah! It is his Transparency!" exclaimed Na-chung. "He is waiting for us."
The Governor stood motionless by his sedan-chair. Not until they were within three yards of him did he stir—and as he took a step, Trent experienced a shock that was not unlike a physical blow. But his poise did not desert him; he only drew a swift breath, which he doubted if the Governor heard, and a slight smile settled over his features—as though he had known from the very first that it was Hsien Sgam who rode in the vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair and this meeting was no more than expected, even anticipated.
"Hsien Sgam," he said, still smiling.
The Mongol—he, too, was smiling—bowed. His slender, almost feminine hands gleamed sharply-cut in the twilight.
"By that name you first knew me," he replied in the quiet, reserved voice that Trent remembered so well—a voice that chose each word with extreme care. "So, my friend, continue to know me as that."
He wore a dark silk-brocade garment; it looked crimson in the dusk. The facings were goldcloth, shining dully, and a hat with upcurling brim surmounted his pale bronze features. One of those curious, vagrant questions came to Trent as he looked at the Mongol. Was this the flannel-clad fellow-passenger of the Manchester, he who had talked of revolutions, of Western vices and morals?... Queer.... There was little of incongruity about him now, here in his native setting; only the eyes and face—eyes of Lucifer and face of Buddha. Anomalous, unexplainable, almost—Trent hesitated at using the term, even in thought; yet why not?—almost monstrous.
"I am pleased to welcome you to Shingtse-lunpo," Hsein Sgam announced. "I regretted very much"—here the sensitive lips quivered in a quick smile—"that you became impatient and left the joss-house, that night in Rangoon. It was unpardonable of me to have kept you waiting, yet unavoidable. I hope to do here what I intended to do there—discuss certain matters with which you are only partly acquainted." Then, after a pause, "I trust you find your quarters comfortable?"
Trent answered with a single word.