“Arms thou shalt have,” he screamed, “but what need is there of a ladder? Why not jump? There is sand beneath!”
Now this, indeed, was spurring Sher Afghán to his death, for the tiger would be on him with inconceivable speed ere he could recover his feet.
Among those who thronged breathlessly forward to hear all that passed, Roger Sainton listened and understood. The big Yorkshireman’s eyes glowed like live coals, and the veins on his neck bulged with sudden passion. It was in his mind to end the quarrel then and there by sweeping the Emperor and a row of his guards into the fosse, but a quaint idea suddenly gripped him, and, without any hesitation, he put it in force.
Thrusting the gapers left and right he reached the royal dais.
“If not a ladder, friend,” he said to Sher Afghán, “why not a step?”
With that, he stooped and caught hold of the huge block of black marble. Before anyone so much as grasped his intent he lifted it from its supports, toppling Jahangir and several of his favorites in a confused heap on the terrace. Then he pitched the mass of stone into the arena and it chanced to fall flat onto the crouching tiger.
His sword flashed out as several spear-men, having recovered their wits, made lunges at him.
“Hold back, good fellows!” he cried cheerily, for Roger’s anger never continued when steel was bared. “Mayhap the Emperor thinks the revel is ended!”