Karakhan lit a cigarette. "Sheer fright, Howell, will not tear a man's eyes out."
There was no luncheon, and the second meal of the day, which was served about 5 o'clock, was eaten very sparingly. The vultures could already be seen collecting on the cupolas and peaks of the buildings.
One giant one, almost the size of a man, had been preening himself on the peak of the gong tower all the afternoon and eying us mockingly. With his bald head and neck showing the discolored flesh he was hideous and had also attracted the attention of the Mongols, who called him Shabu Khan (The Bald King).
As the sun began to get low, the chief lama majestically entered the court. He was followed by two of his satellites, one carrying a small-mouthed brass jar, the other holding a tray of smooth white pebbles.
These stones, one of which had been painted red, were counted into the jar to equal the number of men present and vigorously shaken up by each lama. Then the drawing began. The lamas drew first, some with fear in their eyes, some with no more expression than if the stones had been sunflower seeds or sweetmeats.
Our party was at first uninterested. Out of eighty-seven lamas it was most probable that one of their party would get the red stone.
But more than half of them had drawn; yet the red stone had not appeared!
Karakhan's expression began to grow worried and he puffed harder at his cigarettes. The drawing went on. We eyed each lama as if we willed with all the power of our minds that lie draw out that fatal-painted stone.
Now there were but three and Fen Sho left to draw. We began to suspect a trick.
But even the lamas were anxious now. A big fat one, who had been continually fumbling with the blue cord which belted him around the waist, put his hand into the jar, and beads of perspiration showed all over his face. Fearfully he looked at his draw. White! He sank back thankfully among his comrades.
Another white one came out.
A third!
Fen Sho was bowing and motioning to us.
Karakhan spoke to him in Chinese. He smiled maliciously and shook his head.
"He says the chief lama never draws!" gasped Karakhan harshly.
Now it was clear why the old devil submitted so placidly to the outrages of an angry Fire Dragon. For every lama who disappeared into that tower, his coffers were so much the richer. . . . Fen Sho was beating his fan nervously against his palm. . . . But it would not be a lama this time. There were three stones left in that jar and one of them was red! Shabu Khan looked pleased in contemplation of a change in diet.
Fen Sho was bowing again and motioning to the jar.
Howell stepped up to the jar. All were on tip-toe. His eyes were haggard as he felt in the bottom for one of the three remaining stones. He drew it out. It was red!
He tottered against the wall, but when we reached him to support him there was a grim smile on his lips.
Fen Sho nervously upturned the jar. Two small round white stones dropped out. He nodded wisely and motioned with his fan that we might see them. It was not a trick, perhaps, but it was ghastly luck.
Howell, his mouth still firm, asked through Karakhan if he might take with him his pistol and his flashlight.
Fen Sho frowned, then bowing with another grin, "You may have them," he said, "but they will be useless." A lama was dispatched for them.
