too, just a little, of the brute, grim and primal, not to be baulked of his prey—Basil Gregory sprang after her to catch her in his arms. But before he reached her, just before, other arms caught him and held him in a vice.
Ah Sing had glided like some upright indigo-colored snake from the pagoda—"the pagoda by the lake"—and, springing seemingly from space, one from one direction, one from another, two of the gardeners, almost as quick as he, reached the Englishman almost as soon. Six arms pinioned him, without a word, without a sound. And there was no expression on the Chinese faces of the three—no hatred, no determination, not even interest.
But another man, a dark-robed figure, stood on the bridge, above them all, and slowly he smiled—a terrible smile.
Nang Ping had not heard the four Chinese—no one could have heard them. But she caught the slight sound of Basil's desperate struggles—he was struggling too frantically to waste any of his strength on voluntary noise. She turned and ran to him, crying, "Oh, Basil!"—no matter who heard her now. The end had come, and Nang Ping knew it. She threw herself in front of him, thrust herself into the seething coil, to protect his body with hers, as far as he could.
With a supreme effort—or did that still figure on the bridge give a slight signal that Ah Sing caught?—perhaps both—for a moment Basil's right arm was free. He whipped out his revolver. But with a touch of Ah Sing's finger-tips—it looked an indifferent touch, and the servant's eyes had not turned even for the smallest space of time from that quiet figure on the bridge—the English arm fell helpless at Gregory's side, the revolver clattered down the stone step, and Basil, turning his head up in pain, saw the motionless looker-on.
