“I, Sagamoso, priest of the Council, tell it you. O men of white countenance! torture like to this,”—and he raised his twisted claw-like hands,—“torture of hot iron and seared flesh could not have wrung it from me. But if I be not buried with the rites of the dread god whose servant I yet am, I must walk forever in the outer darkness, weariness unutterable my portion throughout all ages. Because of the sin that I have sinned, the door of Shimra indeed is shut before my face, but the peace of nothingness is still within my grasp, and for that peace will I betray the secret of the city that has cast me forth, the secret of the jewels and the fragrant gums, the ivory and precious woods, the gold and rich garments and the wines of price, that lay hid within the bowels of the earth, and guarded by the name that may not be spoken.”
Here the stranger’s voice faltered and was still, and Lestrade and I looked at each other in amazement that was yet half belief, for the passion in the tones rang through the hut, and that the manner of this heathen burial was to him that asked it of vital import, none might doubt.
“This maiden,” said Lestrade, as though the thought of the treasure had passed him by, “what dreadful fate threatens her, and where is this walled city?”
The poison was doing its work all too well. Thickly and with difficulty the words came from the swollen lips of the dying man. He thrust aside the woven strip that covered his breast.
“Look!” he gasped; “the secret way.” Lestrade and I bent close and there sure enough, tattooed in lines of blue and red, on a spot above the heart as big as a man’s palm, we saw a rude map.
“Straight through the jungle northward,” breathed the priest, “by the swamp, by the waterfall, through the mountains, where beyond lieth the Pass of Blood! Behold the sign!”
His wavering forefinger touched the woven garment, and we saw the fantastic outline of an evil, leering god, about whose squat and crooked body twined a monstrous serpent.
“Bid the gate open in the name of Hed!” he continued, his voice growing full and resonant once more. “And look you—speak not of Sagamoso, the betrayer of the trust, the defiler of the sanctuary. Him, they think long since dead. Let his name be forgotten lest it be cursed before the Council.”
“But the maid, the maid!” cried Lestrade.