Sir Lucien spoke rapidly
in a language which sounded like Spanish. He was answered by a perfect
torrent of words in the same tongue.
Fiercely he cried something back at the hidden speaker.
A shriek of rage, of frenzy, came out of the darkness. Rita felt that
consciousness was about to leave her again. She swayed forward
dizzily, and a figure which seemed to belong to delirium--a lithe
shadow out of which gleamed a pair of wild eyes--leapt upon her. A
knife glittered. . . .
In order to have repelled the attack, Sir Lucien would have had to
release Rita, who was clinging to him, weak and terror-stricken.
Instead he threw himself before her. . . . She saw the knife enter his
shoulder. . . .
Through absolute darkness she sank down into a land of chaotic
nightmare horrors. Great bells clanged maddeningly. Impish hands
plucked at her garments, dragged her hair. She was hurried this way
and that, bruised, torn, and tossed helpless upon a sea of liquid
brass. Through vast avenues lined with yellow, immobile Chinese faces
she was borne upon a bier. Oblique eyes looked into hers. Knives which
glittered greenly in the light of lamps globular and suspended in
immeasurable space, were hurled at her in showers. . . .
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