The Euralian leader nodded.
“We’ll see.” Then he pointed at Pri-loo standing in the doorway watching the pitiful duel, hardly realising the full meaning of what she beheld. “You see her? Watch!”
There was a sign. It was given on the instant. And the dying man gasped in horror.
“Your woman, eh?” The Euralian went on. “Well, she won’t be any longer. Are you going to—speak?”
“She’s not my woman. She’s the wife of Usak. If—if you harm her it’s—it’s sheer, wanton—”
The words died on the missionary’s lips. There was a sharp report. It was the gun of the man guarding Pri-loo fired at close range. It rang out tremendously in the narrow confines of the room. The foster-mother of Felice was shot through the head, which was completely shattered. The poor dead creature dropped where she stood, without a sound, without a cry. To the last moment of her staunch life her angry eyes had defied her captors.
The dying missionary reeled. He would have fallen again to the ground. But the searchers were beside him, and they seized and held him lest he should miss a single detail of that which was intended for his infliction.
“Are you going to—say about it?”
The Euralian’s eyes lit as he made his taunting demand. The tearful cries of the terrified Felice were again raised in response to the deafening report of the gun that had slain her foster-mother.
But Marty Le Gros’ strength was oozing through the wound that had laid him low. The shock of the hideous massacre of the helpless Pri-loo was overwhelming. Consciousness was nearing its extremity.