Calaman had looked on impassively throughout the whole incident, but Nick Carter could make out indications of cold, black rage working within him. Also he noted the scowls of the populace and a certain fidgeting of some of the soldiers in his vicinity.
One man in particular, whose rather elaborate uniform proclaimed him to be an officer, showed that he was disgusted with the tragedy that had just taken place, and that he blamed others than the wretched victims.
This officer was a fine-looking man, with well-cut, high-bred features, while his black eyes appeared to look through anything upon which they might chance to be fixed.
It was evident that he found it hard to restrain himself while the poor, demented creature was struggling with the guard. Once or twice he fingered his sword hilt. At such times his piercing eyes were fixed upon Calaman, while his black brows met in a menacing frown.
He caught Nick Carter’s eye, and at once there was an understanding between the two men.
“Why are such things allowed, my friend?” asked Nick.
“Because that fiend there, Calaman, and his under-priests, rule the land,” was the savage reply, in an undertone. “They have the power and the secret of the Golden Scarab. The people cry out and complain. But that is all. They are superstitious, and they have never understood what the Golden Scarab is, or how it controls their destinies.”
“Sounds like the worst kind of bunk,” muttered Patsy to Chick. “I’d put my foot on this Scarab thing, if I lived here.”
“Hush!” returned Chick. “Let’s hear what this man has to say.”
“The priests rule everything in Bolongu, and particularly in this city of Shangore,” went on the officer to Nick Carter. “Meanwhile we, the nobles, and the rightful rulers of the land, have to pretend that we are loyal to these same priests and that we follow their bidding because we like it.”