“No harm? They may murder you! You know what they are. And you cannot even defend yourself.”
“But I have others engaged who can defend me.” Forrester laughed, but Kenyon noted that it was forced and husky.
“Oh, this birth-curse,” the man proceeded, a species of despair now in his voice. “The mere thought of blood makes me smother with fear.”
“Humph!” was the listening adventurer’s silent comment. “The blood-horror was not a bluff, after all. What a peculiar situation.”
Apparently it was fully appreciated by the two in the adjoining room. The girl softly murmured her sympathy, and the man said, in a lowered tone:
“It’s a curse that I’ve carried through life like an incubus. A thousand times has it held me back when I’ve had victories in my very hands. Look at the case with old Stephen. Hong did not trust me. He made me plead my disability in order that the old man should not tell me too much, and so give me an advantage over himself and Farbush! Oh, if I could only shake it off! If I could only rid myself of it for good!”
The girl was still comforting him when there came the steady tramp of footsteps upon the hard ground without and the sound of voices.
“They have come!” Kenyon heard the girl exclaim, and there was terror in her tones.
“Be brave!” Forrester whispered, as the great hall door opened, and a gust of cold air swept through the passage and into the rooms in a way that made the lights dance. Then footsteps were heard in the hall—slow, painful footsteps—and the door closed with a bang. Kenyon peered through the portières to get a view of the newcomers. He saw Forrester and Anna standing beside a table in the centre of the room. In a doorway stood Farbush, his face white and ominous with rage; and leaning upon him was Hong Yo, looking like the spectre of death itself, but gazing at the young man and girl with laughing mockery in his slit-like eyes.