“There is a nobility in Bolongu, then?” asked the detective.
“As old as any in the world,” was the proud reply. “Look you! That man who rushed out of the house, with his bare sword, and who has just been prodded to death, was of royal blood, a cousin of Prince Tillo. Yet, because he was suspected of plotting against the priesthood, his wife is condemned to die to-day by the Scarab.”
“Die by the Scarab? What does that mean?”
“You will see,” was the enigmatical answer. “It will be this afternoon. Be careful, stranger, you walk a dangerous path! You have strange powers, as I have seen with my own eyes. Yet Calaman is cunning and will lay a trap for you. Even now you may be standing within reach of the claws of the Golden Scarab.”
“What is the Golden Scarab I have heard so much about?” asked the detective. “Surely a strong man like yourself, with a sword that no doubt you know how to wield, could kill it—that is, if there is such a thing as this Scarab, and it is not some fairy tale for children!”
“Wait till this afternoon. I’ll try and have more talk with you then. Calaman is watching us now. When the people are gathered in the amphitheater over there this afternoon, the white man you seek is to be brought out to die the death of the Scarab!”
Horror-stricken as Nick Carter was when he heard this, he was glad the officer had spoken so softly that only he had heard the words. Particularly he was pleased that they had not reached the ears of Jefferson Arnold. If they had, nothing could have prevented the peppery old millionaire flinging himself at once upon Calaman and his guards in an endeavor to save his son.
Such an attack could not but have been unsuccessful just then.
“You say the white man is to die this afternoon?” murmured Nick Carter.
“Yes, but not until some others who are condemned have been disposed of.”