Trent gripped his shoulders. His right hand encountered moisture; he saw a stain.
"What is it?" he demanded, his muscles bound in a rigor of dreadful apprehension.
"Tajen, as we were coming from that—that devil dance, the brother and I.... We were in a street no wider than this"—painfully he lifted his hands in illustration—"and they jumped on us from behind—"
"Who did?"
"I do not know, Tajen; but I think they were lamas. They struck me from behind—and as I lay there I heard the brother scream—and I.... They stabbed me, Tajen. I saw black for a long while, oh, a very long while! When I woke up I was lying in the gutter. The brother—he was gone! I was hurt; but I knew you would kill me if I returned without looking—so I hunted—until I spilled my blood over the city and had none left to keep me alive. Then I came—came back!"
He sank in a huddle at Trent's feet.
"Kill me, Tajen," he moaned. "The brother—how could I refuse when he told me to go with him to...? But kill me—I am not worth the—" His voice broke; he was still.
Trent bent swiftly. After a moment he stood erect.
"Carry him inside," he directed the muleteers. "It isn't a bad wound; he's weak from loss of blood."
The two yellow men stooped and picked up the unconscious Kee Meng. As Trent entered the house behind them the putrid odor of butter-lamps assaulted him, sickened him. The blow had come with a maiming force. He felt suddenly crippled.