He opened glazed eyes, and listened to the howling din at his door.
“The guard are leaving the passes. The white people are wise; they understand, and are joyful. They send scouts.... My soldiers mingle with my roaring, mobbing people. They all push and roll through the pools of rain-water in the highways, churning them to mud. They grind their teeth; they laugh horribly, like imbeciles. The palace is their aim, and their king sits grinning and mumbling there. All the trouble has come from the people in the valley. The white blood breeds all there is of that in the world. May ten thousand curses fall on it!”
He was flinging his arms and lunging about. I woke to the urgency of action, for undoubtedly in his madness he had correctly seen the turbulence in the island, and the sweating hordes plunging over all roads converging to the palace. A glance passed between Christopher and me, and I nodded toward the door, which a packed, howling mass was already straining.
“Come,” I said, seizing the tottering king about the waist and dragging him to the anteroom. I thrust him within, and secured the door back of the curtain.
When I turned, Christopher, his hand on the key of the door into the corridor, was listening. There was no sign of Beela at the window.
“What’s going on?” I inquired.
“Her, sir.”
“She’s out there?” I asked in alarm.
“Yes, sir.”
“Open the door,” I ordered, stepping back to guard the anteroom.