“Listen to me, Raja,” Traherne said in a low, earnest voice, going very close to the other, almost laying his hand on Rukh’s sleeve. “Do what you will with me, but let Mrs. Crespin go. Send her to India or to Russia, and I am sure, for her children’s sake, she will swear to keep absolute silence as to her husband’s fate and mine.”
“You don’t believe, then, that I couldn’t save you if I would?” Rukh demanded.
“Believe it?” Traherne scoffed. “No!”
The Raja smiled. “You are quite right, my dear Doctor. I am not a High Priest for nothing. I might work the oracle. I might get a command from the Goddess to hurt no hair upon your heads.”
“Then,” Traherne asked, “what devilish pleasure do you find in putting us to death?”
“Pleasure?” Rukh echoed. “The pleasure of a double vengeance. Vengeance for to-day—my brothers—and vengeance for centuries of subjection and insult. Do you know what brought you here?” he said with sudden smothered passion. “It was not blind chance, any more than it was the Goddess. It was my will, my craving for revenge, that drew you here by a subtle, irresistible magnetism. My will is my religion—my god. And by that god I have sworn that you shall not escape me. Ah,” he broke off, speaking calmly, as wild yells broke from the now frenzied crowd outside, “they are bringing Mrs. Crespin.”
For a moment Traherne shielded his eyes with his hands, they were trembling, then he mastered himself—and looked.
A priest was unbolting the door through which they had carried him, and when it was opened wide, as he had been brought, she was brought, through the door, into the grim, dark hall.
But she had come in more state. Her chair was rich and gilded, and cushioned. She too was bound, but the thongs that roped her were lightly twisted flowers—the rarest blooms of the palace gardens and glass.
The woman’s face was white and fixed, but her glowing eyes were brave.