with a tremendous, cold enthusiasm. “The blade!” he repeated, in a hushed, flat voice.
He picked the weapon up and pressed it to his lips.
“The blade will never fail you, saheb,” he went on, “though men will and women may. Its soul is old—old and wise and strong and just a little cruel—and loyal, for it came out of Asia. The rest … man and woman—your friends? What do they matter? For you know the ancient Persian saying: 'Let none confide in the sea, nor in whatever has horns or claws, or who carries deadly weapons; neither in a king, nor in a woman, nor in a priest.' But this blade you can trust!”
“Hm … it has played me one dirty trick already,” Hector smiled grimly, reminiscently. “It cut through my pocket and lost me my money.”
The other, too, smiled.
“Not the blade, saheb, but the sheath. The sheath is old and tired, like Asia, like my own country. And so we will give the sword a new house in which to throb and pulse and weave mighty spells.”
For several minutes he rummaged in a carved sandalwood box, finally drawing out a jewel-studded shagreen scabbard into which, slowly, carefully, with his back to his visitor, he fitted the weapon.
“Here, saheb. Never draw the blade in sport, nor in a wrong cause. But trust it. It will speak to you when man fails you—or Fate!”
He said it with a certain note of finality; and Hector muttered clumsy words of thanks and walked out into the gray, haggard London morning.
The great beast of a city was already stirring its
