outstretched like claws, his feet fumbling beneath him.
She shrank back in terror, and raised her arm as if to ward off a blow.
And the jewel on her arm slipped down and flashed and blazed and jangled on her wrist.
And Wu Li Chang knew it. His eyes were glazing now and setting in death, but he knew her too. He remembered now—Oxford, the purgatory of Portland Place, the country vicarage, an organ he'd given a church, an English girl he had liked and befriended in a gentle, reverent way. And this—this—was the reaping of the kindness and the tolerance he had sown—in England!
Rage heroic and terrible convulsed and nerved him. With an effort that almost tore the sinews of his passing soul asunder he turned and looked—yes—there it was—he wanted it—he reached it—and with a scream of fury he caught it up—the sword—and lunged again at the woman cringing and panting there—he gained upon her—she screamed and ran from him feebly—he followed—he lifted the great weapon and clove the air—he struck out wildly with it again, and again cut only the air.
Twice they circled the room—she sobbing in terror, he blubbering with rage and with the agony of death.
Ah! he had almost reached her. One more effort!—he knew it was his last.
He raised the sword with both his hands, raised it above his head, and struck.
It only missed her, and in missing her it struck the gong—once, then twice.
At the tragedy of that miscarriage, life throbbed again through all his tortured pores. Meaning to kill, he had saved. And he had released the Englishman. That
