“You need not unless you wish it,” returned Nick Carter. “We will fight him hard without knowing that. He has injured us enough to give us cause for battle.”
Lord Slava took no notice of the detective’s words. He seemed to be thinking of other days, and as if he had forgotten where he was or to whom he was talking.
“In years gone by,” he went on, “we were a fighting race, ruled over by princes, and we cut out a path for ourselves with our swords and spears. This was the way it was for generations. Then, little by little, the priests gained power, and we of the Golden Scarab fell more and more under their domination, until now no man dares call his life his own.”
“I’ve seen that already,” commented Nick.
“The priests have established a custom to make all who have offended them die the death of the Scarab on the occasion of the annual festival. There is no escape. They pick out the most powerful of the nobles—those who have the ear of the people—as well as the common malefactors. Last year Prince Tillo, my uncle, was one of the victims. The only reason I myself have escaped is that I am one of Calaman’s officers.”
“That’s lucky for you.”
“Perhaps!” replied Slava, with a shrug. “But now word has gone around that there is to be a great killing. In addition to you strangers and the other white prisoner you have come here to carry away, they have seized my brother and seven others of the chief nobles of the land. They had to capture these last in secret, for Calaman and his creatures fear the nobles.”
“Well, but what are we to do about it?” interrupted Nick Carter, rather impatiently. “This killing will not be allowed to go on, will it?”
“Not if it can be prevented.”