"Time presses," said Haganè, speaking always in the same dull, hopeless way. "Our bargain was clearly stated. Shall I now leave with you the body, Monsieur Le Beau, or shall I retrace my steps as I came, giving honorable burial to the Princess Haganè?"
"Le Beau, you cannot hesitate at such a question," cried Todd.
"Pierre, Pierre, in the name of France, compromise us no further! You have done harm enough. Let the poor sacrifice go in peace!"
Pierre caught Yuki to him, his arm about her shoulder, her glossy hair, with the white flowers, strained against his heart. Like a trapped beast he defied them all.
"No, I'll not give her up. You are all false,—all have betrayed me. If I am to have nothing else, I keep at least the frail shell of what she was! Oh, I shall kiss—kiss—kiss—her into life, or myself into her cold, white death. Yes, go, you toad of Hell!" he screamed toward Haganè. "Leave my price with me."
"Though dead, she still has reputation—family honor," Haganè said.
Pierre threw back his head for a derisive laugh. Just then a strange thing happened. From the hillock nearby a crouching shrub seemed to detach itself and spring. It was a man,—the old samurai Onda. Haganè had told him to be there. Before interposition could be made, he had thrown himself on Pierre, taken Yuki from his arms, thrown her back in the kuruma, and stood in an attitude of menace between them. "Keep your hands from my daughter! Keep your devil's hands from the Princess Haganè!"
"Shall we interfere?" whispered Todd to Haganè.
"No, I can do all," he said. Then to Onda, "Keep back, old friend. It is his right,—the price that we have paid."
"Master, Master," cried the kerai, almost sobbing in his excitement, "let me slay him—let me slay all three! I will die the self-death, or be hanged, with equal satisfaction. Only let me slay!"