The king smiled triumphantly and cast a look around the assemblage. Not a man or woman returned his smile. They stood steadfast as rocks, and only the little arrow-maker gave way to his grief by bowing his head in his hands and sobbing most pitifully.
“We also find,” continued the grave chieftain, breaking the painful pause, “that the law forbids any Techla to lift a hand against one of the royal blood; and especially is that person immune who is next in succession to the throne.”
This statement caused a thrill that could not be repressed to pass through the crowd. The natives looked on one another curiously, but satisfaction lurked in their dark eyes.
I began to like these people. In themselves they were not especially disposed to evil, but their fiendish king had dictated their thoughts and actions for so long that they were virtually the slaves of his whims.
“Therefore,” said the chief, speaking in a firm voice, “who will execute our decree of death upon the royal princess?”
“I will!” cried Nalig-Nad, springing to his feet “The king is bound by no law save his own will. The girl is condemned to death, and die she shall!”
With a lightning gesture he caught up his bow and notched an arrow.
I looked toward Ilalah. Her face was pallid and set but she did not flinch for an instant. One fleeting glance she gave into Duncan’s face and then turned her eyes steadily upon her fierce and enraged sire.
The king did not hesitate. He drew the bowstring to his chin, took rapid aim, and loosed the deadly shaft.
A cry burst from the assemblage, and even while it rang in my ears I saw Tcharn leap into the air before the princess, receive the arrow in his own breast, and then fall writhing in agony upon the ground.