"So say I—be they high or low!" Hur echoed boldly.
The old king's eyes sparkled and he looked at them with the mocking smile that they knew so well.
"Drink, then!" he said, spilling a few drops from his cup upon the floor as a libation.
The others followed his example, Esmun with a muttered word of invocation, and both drank off what remained. The king was seized by a violent fit of coughing that shook his withered frame and forced him to set his cup down untasted. As he did so Esmun rose to his feet.
The face of the priest was convulsed and purple and his eyes seemed starting from his head. He raised his clenched hands and made a tottering step toward the king as though he would strike him with his fists. He struggled to speak, but no words issued from his throat. He reeled blindly and crashed down across the table like a slain bullock, overturning it in his fall. His eyes rolled up in his head and he lay motionless.
The prince did not rise from his chair, but his fingers gripped convulsively the carved arms of ebony and he writhed in agony.
"Father!" he gasped.
His form stiffened, his head fell back, and a slight foam appeared on his lips.
Azemilcus drew the skirts of his robe around him and stepped carefully across the litter caused by the wreck of the table, with its linen cloth stained in the spilled wine that flowed from the shattered flagon. He walked quietly to the door and vanished between the crimson curtains, leaving the two dead men alone in the room.