Chapter XVIII: Passing of a Friend

Wolfgar was not dead; but when we picked him up it was obvious that he was dying. The violet beam vanished as his body struck it--vanished with a hiss and splutter, and a puff of sulphuric smoke that mingled with the smell of burning garments and flesh.

Georg and I leaped forward. Argo was standing transfixed by surprise at what Wolfgar had done; and as the beam died, Georg was upon him.

“One moment!”

The quiet, commanding voice of Tarrano. He must have come quickly, when informed by the finders of Argo’s treachery. Yet he stood now at the arcade entrance, drawn to his full height, frowning with lowered brows, but wholly without appearance of haste.

“One moment--stand aside, all of you.”

Argo cowered. The rest of us moved aside. Elza came toward me, and I put my arm around her. Poor little Elza! She was shivering with fright.

Tarrano seemed not to need information as to what had transpired. His eyes, roving over us, saw the lifeless, seared body of Wolfgar lying on the floor.

“Too bad,” he said. Then his gaze swung to Argo.

“Master----”

“Silence!”

There was on Tarrano’s face and in his voice an expression, a tone quite new to me. A quiet grimness. More than that. A quality of deadliness--of inexorable deadliness which could well have chilled the stoutest heart that fronted it.

“Come here, Argo.” Tarrano stood quite motionless. “Argo!”

“Master! Master, you----”

“Come!”

Argo was on the floor. Shaking with terror--for he, probably better than any of us, understood what was coming--dragged himself to Tarrano’s feet.

“Stand up!”

“Master, have mercy----”

“Stand up! Are you a man?”

Argo’s legs would barely support him, but he struggled to get himself erect. With a wrench, Tarrano tore the robe from Argo’s chest.

“Master! Master! Have mercy!”

In Tarrano’s hand I saw a needle-like piece of steel. A dagger, yet it was more like a needle.

“Master--Oh----”

Tarrano had stabbed it gently into the man’s chest. A mere prick into the flesh, and a tiny drop of blood oozed out.

For a moment Argo stood swaying. Eyes white-rimmed with mortal terror as he stupidly looked down at the drop of blood. A moment, then the injected poison took effect. He tottered, flung his arms above his head and fell. Lay writhing an instant; then twitching; and then quite still.

Tarrano turned away, his face impassive. “Unfortunate. He was a good man in many ways--I shall be sorry to lose his services.” He saw me with my arm around Elza, and he frowned.

“So?”

Instinctively, involuntarily--and I hated myself for it--I dropped my arm.

Georg exclaimed: “Wolfgar--he----”

Tarrano turned from me. “He is not dead--but he will die. There is nothing we can do. I’m very sorry--very sorry indeed.”

A sincere regret was in his tone. We lifted Wolfgar up, carried him to a depression in the floor by the wall--a shallow, couch-like bowl half-filled with down.

On the floor we gathered, seated on cushions; and presently Wolfgar regained consciousness. His face was not burned. It lighted with a dazed smile; and his eyes, searching us, picked out Maida.

“You are safe--I’m--so glad.”

His voice was low and labored; and at once his eyes closed again as though the effort of speaking were too great.

Maida was sitting near me at Wolfgar’s head, bending over him. She had recovered from her terror of Argo; and as she leaned down, gazing at the dying Wolfgar, I think I have never seen so gentle, so compassionate an expression upon the face of any woman.

Elza whispered: “There must be something we can do. The men of medicine--the lights--the healing lights! Georg! Cannot you use father’s----”

They were only an overwrought girl’s excited ideas, of course. Wolfgar’s lungs were seared; even as Elza spoke, he coughed, and blood welled from his mouth--blood which Georg quickly wiped away.

Tarrano was on his feet behind us, with folded arms; and as he looked down, I saw on his face also--the face which a few moments before had been grim with deadly menace--a look now of gentle compassion very much like Maida’s.

“No use,” he said softly. “We can do nothing. He will die.”

Again Wolfgar’s eyes opened. “Die--of course.” He tried to raise one of his burned hands, but dropped it back. “Die? Yes--of course. In just a moment...” His eyes, already dulled, swung about. “Who is that--crying? There’s no need--to cry.”

It was little Elza beside me, struggling to suppress her sobs.

Wolfgar’s slow, labored voice demanded: “That isn’t--my Princess Maida crying--is it? I don’t want--her to cry----”

“No,” said Georg gently. “Maida is here--right here by you. She isn’t crying.”