only relatively so because of the weakness of Visram. But snap it did. Then he danced on the drum-top to scatter the writing in the sand, his feet beating a mournful tom-tom like rumbling thunder. He was gasping as he ceased. Tossing the cash on the ground before Yang Yuan-kuei he cried, "Get out! Get out! Get out!" but his voice issued from his throat in only a whisper, the frenzied, fear-drenched voice of a man attacked by a blue tiger, from which there was no means of escape.
Never had Yuhan glowed more beautifully, like a peony in full blossom. Her lips were the red glory of hibiscus flowers. In her words there was a soothing quality, and yet at the same time a sensual persistence.
"Be not afraid," she murmured. "We are with you. There is nothing to fear. Tell me, what was the meaning of the strange characters written in the sand?"
"No, no," he declared, and she was surprised at his stubbornness. Though his body were tossed into a blazing fire until only ashes remained, even the ashes would tell nothing. "No one shall know! The sand is scattered in the wind, the characters are written on air. I will not speak. I like to breathe without a slit throat, for with a slit throat a man cannot breathe. My poor old head must not roll from my body by the stroke of the executioner."
He did not wait for an answer, but turned and rushed in anger from the tent-room. And though they loitered for a while, he returned no more.
Yuhan stifled her anger with difficulty. Her curiosity
was beyond control. She felt like weeping. But that
