THE RECLUSE
4
In the palace, men had sold their lives dearly and there would be sorrow in many a Tartar tent for that night’s work.
Before the palace was taken, Ulatai, second in command, fell to rise not again, followed by Bassalor Danek, Bayan and Cogatai, all nobles of the Horde.
But there was many another to take their place and Chan the venerable, Chan the old and very wise, went down at last, knife in hand and his three sons trampled unknowingly upon him in the press.
And singly they followed him to the Halls of Contentment and the House of Chan, whose deeds of fame had been a golden example to men for a thousand years, was now no more.
Freed from any obstacle, Houlagou and his men hurried through the corridors and rooms of the palace, but did not find that for which they sought until they entered the garden.
Even then, the fugitives might have been overlooked in the dim starlight had it not been for the aged nurse, whose throat pained mightily as she recovered consciousness. Her groan turned every head toward the sheltering tree.
An ululation rose then that called all of the attackers to the spot. But as those in the garden advanced, stinging arrows sang across the pool from out of a flowering bush and took their toll of men.
They spread out and fell flat behind any shelter that offered, coaxing the arrows, knowing that the unknown fighter’s supply must be small.
Wriggling along through the bushes and vines, they neared the archer, coming slowly while his arrows lasted, for he could keep them back in spite of the overwhelming numbers for a time. But his stock was few and none returned that he might use again, for Houlougou was certain that the girl he had sworn to take was behind yonder warrior.
Now, no arrows came from the bush and the men came closer. The flowers nodded and shook as Arslan plunged through and hurled himself at the leader.
“Not while I live, oh Tartar!” he shouted and then a mace struck him dumb and senseless and his knife sank only into dirt and grass roots.
“Kill him not,” ordered Houlagou, “he is a bold warrior and we will take him with us.”
Then with a swoop of an arm he captured the second to emerge from the bush, as Su-rah strove to reach the body of Arslan, weeping to behold his bloody head.
“Ho, brothers,” he cried, “here is the maid, our prize. A shining vessel of desire! A very pearl in truth! Is she not worth the fight?”
He swung her around so they could see her frightened face and a chorus of grunting appreciation went up from the onlookers.
Su-rah’s limbs grew weak and she could scarcely stand with the disgrace of his defiling touch.
She felt his dirty hand upon her throat and was conscious of the disagreeable, pungent odor of the unwashed, as she was drawn closer to him. That she, one of the high-born, one of the illustrious line of Chan, should submit to such indignities! The prospect was unthinkable, but there seemed no alternative.
As she resisted weakly, amid the hoarse hooting of the Tartars in the garden and the jeers of those who sat, watching, upon the wall, she lifted her face toward the Dog on the pedestal.
If only her childhood dreams could come true now, when she needed help so much! If only the Fu-dog would come to life and rage among the barbarians!
Merciful Buddha! Was it possible? Could it be?
Her eyes dilated with horror.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the eyeballs of the huge porcelain statue were turning toward her and slowly a rosy flush suffused those cold eye sockets—and there was no sun to cause that ruddy glow!
Then suddenly, wickedly, they glared forth upon her, twin orbs of flame and fury, and the Fu-dog seemed awake, waiting the word to spring.
The mists that herald unconsciousness dropped before her eyes and veiled the garden. Straight from her heart rose a little faltering prayer to the Goddess of Mercy whose chief office is to succor women.
