Sir Lucien stood before her, supporting her; and all the knives buried
themselves in his body. She tried to cry out, but no sound could she
utter. Darkness fell again. . . .
A Chinaman was bending over her. His hands were tucked in his loose
sleeves. He smiled, and his smile was hideous but friendly. He was
strangely like Sin Sin Wa, save that he did not lack an eye.
Rita found herself lying in an untidy bed in a room laden with opium
fumes and dimly lighted. On a table beside her were the remains of a
meal. She strove to recall having partaken of food, but was
unsuccessful. . . .
There came a blank--then a sharp, stabbing pain in her right arm. She
thought it was the knife, and shrieked wildly again and again. . . .
Years seemingly elapsed, years of agony spent amid oblique eyes which
floated in space unattached to any visible body, amid reeking fumes
and sounds of ceaseless conflict. Once she heard the cry of some bird,
and thought it must be the parakeet which eternally sat on a branch of
a lonely palm in the heart of the Great Sahara. . . . Then, one night,
when she lay shrinking from the plucking yellow hands which reached
out of the darkness:
"Tell me your dream," boomed a deep, mocking voice; "and I will read
its portent!"
She opened her eyes.
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