“Let them hear,” said the Khan, raising himself with an effort upon his elbow. “They—are all—friends.”
A queer look came over the stranger’s face. But he said, in a calm voice:
“The sickness is fatal. You will die.”
For a moment the Lion of Mekran returned the other’s gaze steadily. Then he lay back upon his pillows and sighed.
Agahr, who eyed his master as if fascinated, heaved an echoing sigh, and the group of officials exchanged looks of consternation.
“When?” asked the Khan, his voice now strong and clear, his eyes on the impassive face before him.
“A day—an hour,” replied the Persian, slowly. “It is Death’s secret.”
For a few moments the silence was unbroken save for the splash of the fountain as its perfumed spray fell into the marble basin. Then the Khan again aroused himself.
“Can you hold Death at bay—for a time?” he asked.
“How long?”