“I have heard the challenge,” called out Nick Carter, in a clear voice, when the hubbub that had arisen on his advent had died down. “I, Nicholas Carter, American, a white man, accept the challenge, and will show this Golden Scarab that he can no longer claim to be the invincible fighter of Shangore! Bring forth your Golden Scarab, Calaman, and let me prove my words on him before you and all the people of this great city.”
Calaman swallowed his anger with a tremendous effort, and replied, as if he were not at all taken aback by the appearance of his late prisoner:
“There is nothing to prevent your fighting, if you like. But your chance is so small that I count you already a dead man. What fight you with? The death stick that you have already shown me?”
“No,” was the prompt reply. “My death stick might prevail. Probably it would. But I shall meet my foe with this spear, that belongs to my comrade, Jai Singh. Since you would not let him take up the challenge, I appear in his stead, and with his weapon.”
Calaman shrugged his shoulders.
“It matters little what you fight with,” he sneered. “The end will be your defeat.”
“That remains to be seen,” was Nick Carter’s reply. “But I want it understood here in public that I am to have the reward if I vanquish my enemy in this fight.”
“Most certainly,” answered Calaman.
“Then I want to go free, with all my friends, including the white man, Leslie Arnold, whom you have kept a prisoner since yesterday,” went on Nick, in a ringing voice. “Do you grant that?”
“I grant all that if you defeat the Golden Scarab,” answered Calaman.