“I’m not finished yet,” Sard said.
“Yes, you are,” Sagrado answered. “But since you doubt it, there goes your arm.”
With a swift jerk he snapped Sard’s arm against a fulcrum, and then twisted the broken bone so that Sard cried and swooned. Sagrado waited till he had recovered and then bound him to his pillar.
“You see,” he said; “you thought yourself a man. You make a poor show in the hands of a man. Do you admit that you are beaten?”
“No.”
“You are beaten, by one twenty years older than yourself, and in the presence of your lady-love, who is now my lady-love. Those friends of yours, who were coming, are somewhat overdue. I’ve beaten you and chained you to your pillar with my own hands. Do you admit that I am your master? Answer, dog; reply, my second mate. For I am your master. The lion has caught his meat; the bull has won his heifer. And now the rites shall begin.”
He said something in Indian to the slaves, who brought forth properties from an inner room. They brought robes, rings, a crown, a sword. Then the negro appeared bearing an altar of an evil design, which he set to Sagrado’s hand. The Indians brought forward the throne.
The negro held the robe for Sagrado.
“I put on the garments of a king,” Sagrado said. “It is the colour of power. It was woven by a woman who killed her son and lived in infamy till she was hanged.”
“Your sister, I presume,” Sard said.